


Boulevard of Broken Dreams

by Mertens



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: AU, Asexual Erik, Asexual Relationship, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, I Tried, Kidnapping, Missing Persons, Misunderstandings, Past Drug Use, Private Investigators, but now it's just a detective au i guess, but the only film noir I've ever seen is who framed roger rabbit, i even read a wikipedia article, or something like that, this was supposed to be a film noir au, title from the Green Day song
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2019-03-22
Packaged: 2019-08-24 09:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16637309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertens/pseuds/Mertens
Summary: Wealthy Opera Populaire patron Raoul de Chagny has been kidnapped and the Opera managers have been receiving threatening letters regarding emerging star Christine Daaé. Private Investigators Erik and Antoinette have been called in to get to the bottom of what's going on, which means they'll have to be keeping a close eye on the safety of the young soprano. It really is a shame, then, that Erik seems to hate Christine who in turn seems horrified of Erik - but things aren't always what they seem.





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes Antoinette Giry regretted the loss of the upper floor of her office. The extra storage space, the little sitting room where she could unwind and take breaks from work, the view of Paris from the windows. Sometimes she regretted losing these things, but on the whole she was quite pleased with what she had gained from giving these up nearly ten years ago. 

She had been terribly uncertain when Nadir had brought up the concept, telling her about his associate from Persia who was in dire need of a job and a place to stay. In fact, she had outright refused upon hearing what exactly he had been up to in Persia, but Nadir had steadfastly vouched for the man and she trusted his judgment enough to agree to at least meet him before deciding. 

She'd never forget that first meeting when Nadir had brought him in. He had warned her beforehand of his appearance so she wasn't surprised when he arrived and he didn't mince words about it - apparently the man was horribly disfigured under that white mask that covered nearly all of his face. From what she could see of the skin that showed through the openings of the mask on his right side, she could believe it. He had prepared her with a description of him, but nothing could prepare her for his actual presence - well over six feet tall, impeccably dressed, light amber eyes that held a piercing gaze, dark hair slicked back - the man oozed intimidation. 

But one did not get far in Antoinette's line of work by showing when one was intimidated, so she drew herself up to her own full height of five and half feet, jutted her chin out, and eyed him up and down in a show of dominance. 

"You must be Erik," she said in place of a greeting. 

"Yes," he had taken his hat off and held it politely in his hands. 

Manners, then, she had noted. 

"What's your last name?" 

He dropped his gaze to the ground. 

"I don't have one." 

She raised an eyebrow at Nadir, who gave a small shrug in return. Erik was telling the truth. 

"If you expect to work for me, you need to know I don't tolerate any nonsense," she told him coldly. 

"Yes ma'am," his tone was serious but the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth as he remembered the conversation he had on the way over, with Nadir telling him in no uncertain terms that he better not fuck this opportunity up. 

"We track down missing people here. The point is to keep them from being harmed. We don't solve our problems here with a Punjab lasso. Is that understood?"

His eyes widened for a brief moment at the mention of his weapon. 

"I am... familiar with the concept." 

Her mind still wavered. Was this really a good idea? An assassin helping in missing person cases? But he could bring a different perspective to it, and the man did nothing if not cut an imposing figure - something she could desperately use in her work. She was excellent at what she did, but it was so difficult to be taken seriously by the men in her field and by clients who doubted the ability of a woman. Erik could be quite helpful at lending credence to her skill - a man such as him who would follow her every word, who would stand behind her during investigations? He would hardly even need to do anything, just stand there and glower and already her whole business would look ten time more effective. She sighed inwardly that such a thing was needed, but the fact remained that it was. Antoinette Giry was good at what she did, but Giry and Erik would be afforded more respect. 

"If you slip up even once, Nadir will hear about it."

Erik glanced over at Nadir. He was Erik's friend, yes, but he was also the chief of police and Erik knew there were only so many times Nadir could overlook his actions. 

She paused as she regarded Erik, his eyes still focused on the floor. In all the years she'd known him, Nadir had never steered her wrong. 

"You may stay upstairs, if you wish, and your room and board can be deducted from your salary." 

He raised his eyes to meet her gaze. 

"Thank you." 

He sounded sincere enough, but it was terribly difficult to read any emotion on his face due to the mask. 

"You may stay tonight, if you'd like - Nadir has informed me that you are somewhat between residences at the moment." 

Erik nodded. 

Antoinette looked at him expectantly, glancing towards the stairs that led to what would now be his rooms. He stood there awkwardly, not taking the hint. 

"You may go to your room now, Erik," she finally told him. 

"Oh! Yes ma'am. Thank you," he hurried up the stairs, his long legs allowing him to climb two steps at a time. 

She watched him as he quickly disappeared from view and wondered what she'd gotten herself into. 

"He's afraid of you," Nadir chuckled. 

Giry smirked. 

"Is he really?" 

"He knows he's running out of chances for a fresh start. It's so hard for him to find work because of-" Nadir motioned to his face. "- he doesn't take well to people mentioning it, and so many people insist on mentioning it. Did you know he applied for a job at the Opera Populaire?" here Nadir lowered his voice. 

"Oh?" Antoinette was thinking of her daughter who danced there. "Does he play an instrument?" she couldn't imagine him being on stage in any capacity due to his face, so the only other option had to be a musician. 

"He plays beautifully - and he sings, too, he sings like a dream, Antoinette." he sighed before continuing in a whisper. "He auditioned for them and they wanted to hire him, but they refused to do so unless he removed his mask. Can you imagine? They wouldn't even let him play hidden away in the orchestra pit unless he removed it. Well, obviously he can't, and he fought them on it but they were quite insistent on the matter. He told me that they even tried to remove it forcefully. He was crushed. He actually cried over it. He had wanted nothing more than to be able share his music with others, even when he was... otherwise engaged, in Persia. But now it looks like that's never to be."

She glanced over at the stairs. That imposing man reduced to tears was an image she couldn't picture. She shivered. 

"So I wanted to thank you, Antoinette, for doing this. A mind like his needs something to focus on, a problem to solve, a quest to keep him busy, or otherwise... Otherwise I fear he'll fall into something unsavory yet again." 

She shot him a look of alarm and he winced at his choice of words. 

"Not- not anything like what he did in Persia, I'm certain he's put that kind of thing behind him - but fraud and thievery are still unsavory, you know. I imagine he'll be on his best behavior here, but if he's not..."

Antoinette nodded. "I'll let you know." 

Nadir brought in Erik's bag of belongings and took them upstairs to his new room. As he shook Erik's hand in farewell with one last admonishment to behave himself (which garnered no more than an eye roll from Erik) Nadir was stuck between being glad to finally have the man out of his own small apartment where he took up so much space and being concerned that he could no longer keep as close an eye on Erik as he wanted. Either way, Nadir shook his hand and left. 

The following morning when Antoinette arrived in her office she knocked on the wall next to the stairs and called out for him. He arrived within moments, once again dressed finely and ready to start work. She spent the better part of the day showing him her filing system, explaining how she expected him to behave with clients, describing the policy procedures and investigation codes of conduct. Finally she had glanced up at the clock. 

"I'm going out for lunch today. Would you like to come along?"

"No, thank you."

She nodded. 

"Here is the extra key, in case you get back from your lunch before I do," she slid the key across the desk to him. 

"Ah, no," he glanced over at it from the stack of current case files he was absorbed in. "I meant, I will not be eating lunch today at all, I am not hungry. I would much rather catch up on these cases." 

So she left him on his own for the afternoon. 

It had only been a half an hour after she had gone that the door swung open once again, a little bell ringing to alert him of the presence of a client. 

He glanced up. A girl of about fifteen had entered and was staring at him with burning curiosity. He set the case file down and straightened in his chair. 

"Is- is Antoinette here?" the girl asked as she crept closer to his desk. 

"She is out at the moment, but I am her associate. How might I assist you?"

Ahhh, so this was the strange man Maman had been telling her about over dinner last night. Her eyes lit up. 

"I'd like to report a kidnapping," she said, breathlessly and with far more enthusiasm than Erik thought was entirely healthy. "I saw him quite well, you must take down his description!" 

Erik pulled a drawing pad and a pencil out from a drawer and set to work rendering the face she described. He turned out to be quite talented with a pencil, a fact that delighted Meg to no end as she made up feature after feature of this fantastical kidnapper and watched as Erik dutifully etched them into being. 

"And his eyebrows were big! No, bigger. And he had a mustache. No, not like that, like a handlebar mustache. Yes, and it went way out - no, farther than that! Oh, that's a little too far, don't you think? Yes, that's better," she happily described from her perch on the chair, leaning over the desk with her chin propped on her hands as she made him erase and redraw over and over again. 

Antoinette returned from her lunch to see this strange scene. She frowned. 

"Meg, what are you doing here? Don't you have rehearsals today?" she walked over to look at what her daughter was engrossed in. "Why are you bothering Erik?"

Erik paused in his work, glancing from Antoinette to what he now realized was her daughter. The girl -Meg, apparently- had a mirthful smirk on her face as she caught Erik's eye. It was in that moment that he realized he'd been had. There was no kidnapper. 

"Rehearsals were cancelled today, Maman - the stage caught fire." 

Antoinette sighed wearily. 

"That's no reason to bring this nonsense here," she told her as she gestured to the sketch. "I have to pay him for the work he does, you know."

"You would have to pay him regardless of if he sat here and read or if he drew me a picture. At least I got a picture out of it!" Meg made grabby hands for the piece of paper, which Erik reluctantly tore from the book and handed to her. 

How terribly embarrassed he was to have thought that it was real, an embarrassment that only deepened when Meg looked at the paper frowned, sliding it back to him and tapping her finger on the space in the lower corner. 

"You have to sign your name right here," she pouted. 

His face flushed red under the mask as he gripped the pencil and scribbled out his name in the corner. He hated how childish his handwriting looked, how difficult it was to get the letters to look right, the amount of effort that went into something so seemingly simple especially when his skill at drawing in all forms was so good. But it seemed every skill he had with a pencil suddenly vanished when it was time to write words. 

Nevertheless he returned the signed paper to Meg, who took it and positively skipped out of the room. He and Antoinette stared at the door she left through for a moment before Erik broke the silence. 

"I assume Nadir will be hearing of this, then."

And Antoinette couldn't help but laugh at his grave and serious tone. 

He took to the work like a natural, falling into it easily and pursuing cases with a determination that rivaled Antoinette's own - he often would skip meals and, she suspected, sleep, when he was working, a course which often brought about the conclusion of cases much quicker than expected. His mind was that of a genius, she marveled, and wondered at what his life could have been like had he been gifted with a face like any other. He was always respectful of her, never doubted her ideas or opinions simply because they were hers - a novel concept for her when working with a male partner. And though he excelled at field work he also never balked or complained when assigned paperwork. When working with the police or other detectives he knew when to speak up and when to stay quiet - to push for her ideas to be heard when they fell on deaf ears, to push on doors as they were attempting to be closed in their faces, and to push Antoinette to keep continuing when things got difficult. 

She regretted the loss of the upper rooms, yes - but she never regretted Erik. 

In turn for all he did for her business, she also graciously allowed him the use of basement in which he somehow managed to drag an entire organ into. She never pried about his past or about Persia or what was behind his mask. She allowed him days off at a time when he needed them, after she realized that on occasion he suffered from debilitating headaches. And perhaps, in Erik's mind, the most important thing she did for him was to treat him no differently than anyone else, although she surely wasn't even aware of this or how it affected him. She never cringed under that preternatural gaze that he couldn't help, never let her eyes linger with disgust or morbid fascination on the skin that peeked out from the corner of his mask and trailed down his neck, never shied away from the accidental brush of cold fingers when handing him something, never cowered next to his imposing height. She treated him like a human, like a person, not some circus freak, and for that she had his undying gratitude and loyalty. 

And so the years had marched on, the two of them working cases and enjoying each other's company. 

Nearing that ten year mark, he had insisted on gifting her with a small remodel of her office, and she had to admit that it was looking rather nice, especially the new door. 

The harsh lamplight glinted off the golden lettering on the glass of the door - 'Madame Antoinette Giry, Private Eye'. 

Said Madame sat behind her desk, stared at the stack of paperwork and rubbed her temples. What she wanted more than anything in that moment was a cigarette - she could almost taste the overpowering flavor of ash and fire, but she had sworn them off ages ago, a promise to her now-departed husband when they had first married. She hadn't had a cigarette in twenty five years, and she had no intention of having one now - but sometimes the urge was there, all the same. She pushed it out of her mind with a long sigh and finally began to settle to the task of sorting the papers when a knock came at the door - blessed distraction. 

She knew it could only be one person this late at night, and as she opened the door she found she was correct. The police chief was there to greet her. 

"Nadir, come in."

She graciously ushered her friend inside. 

"How was your day? Hopefully better than mine."

Nadir sat on the couch and sighed. 

"That Jospeh Boquet again," he shook his head. "He's spending the night at the station - again. He was out in the square, roaring drunk and picking fights," Nadir pauses. "Again."

Antoinette chuckled at this. The stage hand at the Opera where her daughter worked was quite troublesome. It was far from the first time he had to spend the night at the station. 

"How is Erik?" Nadir asked. 

Antoinette frowned. 

"He couldn't work at all today. He's been quite incapacitated with it all, but hopefully it passes by tomorrow."

Nadir made a sympathetic noise. "Such a shame he's not able to take anything for it. Is he upstairs right now?" 

"Yes. I've had twice as much work on my plate because of it. He normally does all the filing, and I'm sure he won't mind having to get through the backlog of it all, but I did think it would be nice if I could help him out so he doesn't have so much to do when he's feeling better, but-" she gestured to the stack on her desk. "Clearly it is not going how I intended." 

Nadir began to speak but was cut off by a voice coming from the stairs. 

"It appears we have a guest," Erik was slowly descending the stairs, gripping the handrail to keep his balance. 

The last remnants of the throbbing headache were still lingering, the desk lamp burning his eyes and making him squint and scowl. The dark circles which were a constant under his eyes looked all the darker. 

"Erik," Nadir greeted him. "I was just asking about how you were doing."

"Yes, Daroga, and you were doing so in a voice which could wake the dead, hence my sudden appearance." 

"So you heard about Boquet, then," Nadir chuckled. 

"Who the devil cares anything about Boquet in the slightest," Erik pressed the heels of his hands over the eyeholes in his mask as he slumped onto the couch near Nadir. 

"I care, when I have to escort him in such a state as he was tonight. He took a swing at me, you know." 

"Daroga, I have half a mind to take a swing at you right now."

But Erik made no move from where he was lazily sitting and neither of the others gave his threat a second thought - they were far too used to his grumpy moods when he was in pain. 

"Oh, Nadir, I received word that Christine Daae is on her way back, did you hear?" Antoinette found the letter from several days ago that had been buried under other papers. "She's hoping to get an understudy role in the latest production, apparently her training in England went quite well."

"Good, good." Nadir nodded. "The poor girl has had quite a difficult time, I'm glad she's had something go right for a change. Do you know when she'll be arriving?"

Antoinette shrugged sheepishly. 

"The letter was from days ago, so I imagine she could show up at any time."

"Well, I'll keep an eye out for her at the Opera."

Erik perked up at the mention of the opera. He had recently felt there had been enough years that had passed after that heart-wrenching audition to perhaps finally go to a show every now and then, although he hadn't gone yet and he had barely played much at all since that night. The organ in Giry's basement was just gathering dust, his violin just sitting in a corner on his bedroom. He had tried to play something every now and then, but the spark was gone and he didn't think he'd ever get it back again. Still, listening to an opera held some appeal for him, if the singers were good. 

"What's this about then?" he asked. 

"Christine? Oh, I don't think you've met her, Erik. She's a little older than Meg, they were in the ballet and chorus together when they were younger. I knew her guardian, Madame Valerius - Christine is an orphan, you see - but Valerius passed away a number of years ago as well, and Christine has spent the last five years in England studying music."

Erik's mind had started to glaze over somewhere around 'they were in the ballet together' - it was simply too much detail and so many words and he couldn't keep up with them all. He had merely wanted to know who the opera singer was, but apparently that was too involved a story. No matter, he thought, if she was still attempting to land an understudy role, she couldn't be that good. 

"Oh, yes, I see," he offered instead. 

He rose from the couch and surveyed the massive stack of paperwork. 

"It is late, Antoinette," he said gently. "You should go home and get some rest. Leave the papers to me, I will finish them."

"Are you certain, Erik?" she wanted to protest, wanted to help lighten the load for him, but she still stood up because she would be lying to say she wasn't exhausted. 

"Very." 

"Thank you. I'll see you tomorrow, then." 

Nadir rose as well and followed her out, bidding Erik farewell. 

Erik turned the lamp on the desk off, opting instead to open the blinds on the window to let the streetlight in. He brought a few candles down from his room and set them in strategic places around the office. The room remained obstinately dark, but he had always been good at being able to see in low light, and least this wouldn't aggravate his migraine. He enjoyed the silence as he worked, so he stayed up for hours sorting and filing the papers. Fatigue began to set in around the early morning hours, at which point he left the remainder of the work for later, closing the blinds and blowing out the candles and shuffling upstairs for sleep. 

When he awoke once again, a glance at the clock informed him that he had not only slept past the normal hour they opened the office but had also slept through half of the lunch hour. He sighed. Surely Antoinette had seen to opening, then, and had left him to sleep. She would be at lunch now, the woman never neglected her strict schedule of breaks from work, something Erik was terrible at. 

She must have left the radio on when she left, he mused. There was the sound of singing coming from downstairs, an operatic tune being sung by a woman. It was quite good, he thought to himself as he adjusted his wig and mask by feel as opposed to looking in a mirror. He found himself humming along softly as he continued getting dressed, until, as he was putting on his cufflinks - the last of dressing routine - he decided to sing along with the radio, emboldened by being the only one there to hear him. 

He only made it halfway through a verse, however, when the lovely voice from below suddenly stopped. He stopped a second later, a sudden wave of horror hitting him and threatening to make the world tip sideways. 

That wasn't the radio.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine breathed in a deep breath of the Parisian air and smiled. Being back in France made her heart feel full, even if a number of her memories here were bittersweet. She missed her Papa and she missed Mamma Valerius, but she felt closer to both of them when she was here. She couldn't wait to see her old friends from the Opera Populaire once more. Being away from the for so long had caused her to lose contact with some of them, growing apart from others. But Meg had always faithfully answered her every letter, and the two were still close. 

She spent the cab ride over to Madame Giry's office thinking about all the friends she'd left behind in England, about which ones would turn out to be the Megs of that portion of her life and who would fall away over the years, busy with their owns lives. She pulled herself out of that reverie as she realized that the traffic was heavier than she had remembered. She fretted over the time, she should have left earlier. 

When they finally pulled up to the office it was just past noon - and if Madame Giry still kept to her schedule, as Christine assumed she would, that meant she was out at lunch. She knocked on the door and tried the knob. It was unlocked, so she opened it. 

"Madame?" she called out. 

Silence. 

She must have just missed her. Christine cursed her poor timing and sat on the couch with a sigh. She would wait here until Giry returned. She had lost contact with so many people in Paris that she had no where else to go - the only friends she could visit instead where busy with practices for the auditions coming up. Meg was hoping to become lead ballerina, and Christine was hopeful that she would. She loved the idea of the two of them up there one day, she the lead soprano and her friend the lead dancer, just as they had plotted and planned when they were teens. 

She pulled a small mirror out of her bag, taking in the state of her hair after her travels. It seemed to fall more on the side of frizzy than curly, as she felt it often did. She bit her lip and began to comb her fingers through it before rolling and twisting it into a bun, sticking pins into it to hold it in place. She checked it in the mirror once more, sighing at the loose pieces that were somehow shorter than the rest and had found their way out of the bun and insisted on sticking out at odd angles or hanging annoyingly in her face. Still, it was the best she could hope for, she assumed and tucked the little mirror away. 

She got up off the couch and began to glance over some of the papers on the desk. When she had lived in Paris before Madame Giry had often told her about cases she was working on, and Christine had especially loved hearing about the ones where everything had turned out well in the end. She looked over the files, careful not to disturb the order they were in, wondering about how close these people were to being found and reunited with their loved ones. She smiled to think of the work that Antoinette did. She thought perhaps if she hadn't fallen in love with the opera that she might have liked to work for her here. Christine had never told anyone so, too embarrassed by the thought, but she had always pictured Antoinette Giry as a kind of superhero, the type one would read about in the novels or comic strip stories, and even though she was no longer a young girl with a head full of dreams who looked up to her best friend's mother as though she were magical, she still held the woman in very high regard. 

Well, if she must wait in solitude, then she might as well make good use of the time. 

She began to sing softly, practicing the words to song she was planning to use for her audition. She knew the song quite well, but that still didn't keep her from being terrified that she'd get on stage on suddenly forget the words. So she sang as she examined the knickknacks on the bookshelf and wondered at the setup of the room which she thought was different but couldn't be certain - perhaps Giry had remodeled it since Christine had been here last, or perhaps it simply been so long since that her memory was fuzzy. 

She let her mind wander, and as she did, she ceased to control the volume of her voice, letting it get a little louder. 

She was more than halfway through the song when suddenly there was another voice - a man's voice - singing along with her. 

She stopped. So did he. 

Her face flushed a bright red. She had no idea someone was in here or she never would have been singing. Why hadn't he said something when she called out for Madame? Had he not heard her? She had forgotten that the office contained an upstairs. She buried her face in her hands and groaned, then turned around with the intent of calling out to whoever was up there. 

What she hadn't been expecting, however, was that the man would already be standing at the foot of the stairs when she turned around. She hadn't heard him come down - he moved as silently as a ghost, she thought afterwards. 

Since she hadn't been expecting the man to be standing there, and she most certainly hadn't been expecting someone so tall with such piercing eyes and a white mask that covered most of his face - Christine Daae did what was only natural, if somewhat impolite, in such a surprising situation. 

She screamed. 

She certainly hadn't meant to, especially since the man's reaction to that was to wince and flee back up the stairs, but it was an involuntary action on her part. 

Christine was overcome with embarrassment. The only way that could have gone worse, she berated herself, is if she had fainted right in front of him. She had no clue how to go about introducing herself to someone after she had screamed upon seeing them, so she took the only option that seemed viable in that moment - she ran out the door. 

Erik paced back and forth in his room. He had scared her quite badly! The poor thing was terrified of him! He certainly couldn't go back downstairs again. He was angry at himself for scaring her so, and he was embarrassed for not realizing that it was a flesh and blood human downstairs and not the blasted radio. He never would have began singing if he knew he was in the presence of another person - he hadn't sung in front of anyone in ages, and he certainly hadn't intended on doing so ever again. Not after Persia. 

He bit his lip in frustration. Whoever she was, she was a beautiful singer and under other circumstances he would have liked to get to know her - but that was certainly out of the question now. He cursed his foolishness and carelessness when he should have known better not to sing and sneak up on people, he cursed his damned face that necessitated such a mask that still managed to frighten people senseless, he cursed Nadir for insisting Erik couldn't spend the rest of his days living in an abandoned basement and instead needed to attempt to integrate into society. Erik had, yet again, doomed another acquaintanceship before it had even begun simply by virtue of being Erik. 

Christine hurried down the street as fast as her feet would carry her without drawing attention to herself. Her face felt like it was on fire. He must think her horribly rude! And surely running away had only made it worse! But she could not help it, she couldn't bear to face him again after that. She prayed Madame Giry would hurry back from her lunch and be able to soothe things over. Christine wouldn't blame the man if he never wanted to see her again. 

Finally Erik heard the door open once more. He waited. Sounds of soft footsteps and a coat being slung over the coatrack drifted up to him. 

"Antoinette?" he called out uncertainly. 

"Yes, Erik?" she replied. 

He stormed down the stairs. 

"Who was she?" he demanded. 

"Who was who?"

He scoffed. 

"The girl who was in here, the singer."

"Singer?" Giry paused for a moment. "Oh, it must have been Christine. I told you about her, remember?"

"Well why didn't you warn me she was coming here today?" he was aware of the petulance in his tone but was unable to contain it. 

"I simply didn't know, Erik," she shrugged. "Why, what happened?"

"I scared her half to death, that's what happened!" he snapped. 

There came a loud and insistent knock on the door, despite its being unlocked, as though whoever it was outside wanted to make their arrival very known. 

Erik could see through the frosted glass enough to tell the figure knocking was the same height as Christine. He turned away and faced the bookcase, still peeved at how the situation had turned out earlier. 

Antoinette opened the door and wrapped the smaller woman in an embrace. 

"Christine! Darling, I've missed you so! Do come in!" 

Christine smiled nervously, glancing over to the tall figure by the bookcase. 

"I missed you terribly, Madame. How have you been?"

"Busy," Antoinette sighed. "But otherwise quite well. I'm sure Meg will be thrilled to see you again."

Christine couldn't help the continual dart of her eyes over to Erik, and Antoinette noticed. 

"Christine, I'd like you to meet my business partner, Erik," Antoinette motioned over towards him. 

Christine nodded. Madame had mentioned a partner she worked with occasionally over the years, but Christine had never met or even seen him before, and Madame had certainly never described him or made mention of his mask. 

Christine took a step towards him as he slowly turned to face her. She held her hand out to him and hoped he wouldn't notice how it trembled slightly. 

"How do you do, Monsieur?" she tried to smile. 

His gaze dropped to her outstretched hand. He clasped both of his own hands behind his back. He wasn't wearing gloves, as he hadn't been expecting to have to touch anyone, and he was aware that his hands held a perpetual chill to them. He didn't want to startle her yet again by placing that icy grip around her own small hand which was probably quite warm. 

"Mademoiselle," was his only reply to her, and he desperately hoped that blush he knew was coloring his hidden face wasn't also creeping down his neck. 

Her smile faltered and she let her hand drop. Was he still mad at her, then? 

"When is your audition, Christine?" Antoinette saved her from her own thoughts. 

Christine turned and walked back over to the couch. 

"Tomorrow, actually." 

At prompting from Giry she began to tell stories about what it was like in England. As she spoke her eyes drifted over to Erik every so often. He seemingly wasn't even paying attention to her or anything she said, instead opting to focus on the case file he had picked up, studying it with his mouth set in a firm line. 

She let her eyes wander over him as she continued talking. He was so tall, Christine didn't think she'd ever known anyone that tall. She herself was barely five feet, Erik practically towered over her. She could tell that the mask must be hiding some sort of mark or scar, judging from the skin around the edges of it. She longed to ask him to sing once more, she had only heard his voice for a moment, but she was almost certain that he was incredibly skilled. But she couldn't ask that of him - she could barely even address him. 

"Do you - do either of you - mind too terribly if I stayed here until the ballet auditions are done? I don't really have anywhere else to go, you see."

"Of course you can, dear," Antoinette nodded. 

Christine looked over to Erik, who let his gaze linger on the file for a moment longer before glancing over at her. His cool demeanor sent a chill through her. 

"It makes little difference to me either way," he looked back down to his work. 

Christine nodded and pulled a book out from her tote bag, leaving them to their work. In truth she got very little reading done, instead listening to their muted conversation over the case they were working on. 

Erik stole glances at her from the corner of his eye. She spoke French quite fluently from what he could tell, but every so often she'd lapse into an accent which sounded almost Swedish. Her golden hair was twisted and pinned up, with a few elegant curls left out. Her nose, with a delicate scatter of freckles running across it, crinkled in concentration as she read her book and Erik found this awfully endearing. He found himself wishing he could hear her singing voice again. Perhaps- perhaps she would be onstage at some point, the directors would be fools not to have her sing onstage, and perhaps he could sit in the audience and hear her sing and-

He shook himself. It would not do to think of her so, she was clearly uncomfortable around him, and Erik was too much of a gentleman to force his presence into someone's life that clearly didn't want him there - imagine how terrible it would be for her up there on stage and for her eyes to drift across the audience and catch sight of his deathly white mask staring back at her - no, no he couldn't do that to her. He probably wouldn't even see her again after today. 

So when she finally took her leave to go see Meg, Erik thought that was the end of it. However, it was most certainly not. 

She returned the very next day, bursting into the office as Antoinette was getting ready to close up, and announced that she had landed the understudy for Marguerite in the upcoming run of Faust. Erik, who had already retired for the evening, could hear her excited new being conveyed to Antoinette. 

Bafflingly enough, she continued to visit the office over the next several weeks, preferring to spend her breaks from rehearsals lounging on Antoinette's couch. Most often Erik would find excuse to go upstairs or out - it was easier that way, he thought. He found he would hang on her every word about the opera rehearsals, form questions in his mind that almost slipped out of his mouth, found his eyes would wander from his work to where she sat. On some of those occasions he would find that she had been looking at him as well, only to turn away from him quickly. Had he been any other man, perhaps he would have taken these moments in a more flattering light, but he knew the most obvious and likely reason she was looking was to get a better glimpse of what was under the mask. He had experimented with different styles of masks in the past, hoping to find one that managed to cover it completely, but any that did so ended up impeding his vision or ability to speak and eat - so he was stuck with this one that left areas around his eye and chin visible even though he would much rather have them covered. His neck, at least, could be covered by a cravat. But that gaze on him, even for a moment, made him uncomfortable. It felt like being judged, like being on display once more - like childhood memories he'd much rather forget. So it was easier to simply leave. 

Leaving was not always an option, however, and that's how he was there to hear her excited yet conflicted delivery of news to Antoinette one day. 

"Oh Madame, you aren't going to believe this - I have such news to tell you!" Christine bounced on the balls of her feet. 

"Is it good news?" Antoinette stopped her writing to look up. 

"I think that depends, you know - I'm sure it's awful to take joy in someone else's bad news but oh-! La Carlotta is ill!"

"Christine - congratulations! Do you know how long she'll be out?" Antoinette was pleased. 

Christine shook her head. 

"A week, at least - I'll be doing four performances for certain!" she beamed. 

Christine did feel guilty about being so happy to hear that the diva was sick, but all of the hard work she had put into learning her understudy role was finally about to pay off. Marguerite in Faust! She could scarcely believe it. It was a dream come true. 

Erik paused and looked over at Christine. 

"Congratulations, Christine. This will be a wonderful opportunity for you, indeed." 

"T-Thank you, Monsieur," she was surprised at being addressed so directly, and so sincerely. 

Erik thought about Christine's news for the rest of the night. Faust was one of his favorite operas... And Christine was a wonderful singer. Perhaps it wouldn't be too odd, in that case, if he were to go see the show, just maybe.


	3. Chapter 3

Erik tried to talk himself out of feeling so terribly foolish as he prepared to go out for the evening.

It's not like he was planning to go somewhere, no - he was merely taking a walk around the block. If he happened to pause in front of the Opera House, well, people pause in all sorts of places. Just because he was going inside didn't mean anything in particular. And just because he bought a ticket didn't mean he was actually going to have to stay the entire time. 

It was simply time to go see an opera, he hadn't been to one in over ten years. Besides, the manager who tried to grab his mask off wasn't even working there anymore. Erik had been up in his rooms far too long, it was high time he went out and mingled with humanity... Never mind that he wasn't overly fond of most of humanity. 

It certainly had nothing to do with how the sun reflected off her bouncy curls, or that little spring in her step, or those forget-me-not blue eyes. Besides, even if he were going because of Christine, well - Christine was a friend of Antoinette, and he was a friend of Antoinette, and that was almost like doing a favor for a friend in that case. There was nothing strange about that. Was there? 

He simply wanted to see an opera, that was all. 

He sat in the back, where he hoped he would be less conspicuous, and settled down into his chair. The lights dimmed and the stage lit up, the orchestra warming up. He shifted. 

It was a little uncomfortable to be there, more uncomfortable than he had anticipated. He wondered what his life would have been like had he gotten the job here - what his life should have been like. 

That should be him down in that orchestra pit. 

Hell, that should be him up on the stage. 

But it never would be. He'd never be up there, and he'd never even play for the people up there, and both because of the same infuriating reason. It bothered him more than he cared to admit, and he was very nearly about to slink back out into the night when Marguerite came on stage. 

At the first note from her perfect mouth, all of those thoughts quieted. 

Christine was perfection itself. 

He didn't think he'd ever seen or heard anything so beautiful as her up there on that stage. He realized that when he had heard her sing in the office, she had been holding back. She had a lovely strong voice then, but this - this was otherworldly. He sat transfixed throughout the entire performance. No other voice could even come close to the pure quality of hers, it was as if he were hearing the angels themselves. She had always been rather pleasant to look at, but onstage she was radiant. His heart twisted at the sight of her, eyes sparkling and voice lilting. How could such beauty exist in a world like this one? 

Before he knew it the opera was over and he was out in the street drifting home. He walked in a daze, his heart beating slightly faster, his mind replaying her arias, his entire body covered in a warmth comparable only to the morphine he used to take long ago. 

He hung his coat on the coat rack out of habit and went through the motions of getting ready for bed. But as he lay there staring up the ceiling he realized sleep was not going to be soon in coming - his mind was far too preoccupied and there was an itch in his fingertips that he hadn't felt for years. 

He got out of bed, threw on a robe, and made his way down to the basement. He swept his hand smoothly over the keys of the organ, clearing the dust and cobwebs away, and he sat down in front of it. A tentative touch to the keys, a test of if it still worked or not, and moments later his hands were flying across it as though he'd never left. 

He revisited old compositions of his own, and started on news ones that had begun to germinate in his brain. He played throughout out the night and into the early hours of the morning, stopping only because he didn't want Antoinette to come in and hear him. 

Erik decided to forgo sleep entirely, instead taking the remaining few hours to freshen up before it was time for work. 

It was a day for field work, interviewing people at places of business where the latest missing person used to frequent. As such, Erik knew he wouldn't be seeing Christine, a thought that was surprisingly disappointing. Still, there were at least three more performances he was planning to see. At least when she was on the stage he could bask in her presence without frightening her or have to face her morbid curious stare. 

Out on the street, Antoinette glanced over at her partner. He kept rubbing his hands and wincing. Most people thought the mask hid any sort of telling what he was doing with his face, any way of deciphering emotion, but after so many years Antoinette could always tell - the narrowing of the eyes, the slight twitch in his neck - Erik was in pain. 

"Are you alright?" concern colored her voice. 

"Perfectly fine," he replied. 

She paused before replying gently. 

"If you think you're getting another attack, you can always take the day off. I don't mind so very much. I'd much rather you head it off early than try to fight through and end up making it worse, you know."

He nodded. 

"Your concern is noted." 

They carried on to their destination. 

How could he explain that he had been awake all night composing, that Christine was an angel sent from heaven to bless an undeserving heathen like him with the gift of music once more, that it wasn't his head that was bothering him but his hands which had grown weak and stiff after years of disuse? He couldn't, but he also knew she wouldn't push him to divulge anything he didn't want to, so he continued to rub at the sore tendons in his fingers. He knew he should take it easy, perhaps take a few days off from playing, but even still he felt the urge to play at that very moment, pain and all. He sighed. It was going to be a frustrating wait for his hands to catch up once more with his mind. 

It was a relief then that in all their interviews that day it was Antoinette who took down the notes, as usual. Erik already struggled with legible handwriting, but with his strained hands he doubted he could even hold a pencil. 

In the evening they compared notes and their suspension leaned towards this case being less of a missing person and more of a woman attempting to flee an unhappy marriage to a brutish husband. 

"We aren't going to tell him, are we?" Antoinette held up the page of notes from the shipping docks, where the woman was last seen boarding a boat to America. 

"No," Erik replied flatly. "We should string him along with false leads until she's reached her destination."

Antoinette nodded. 

"And after? Perhaps it would be best if he thought his, ah, beloved wife has met with an untimely end."

"That would be best, I think. He certainly isn't going to stop looking for her otherwise," Erik paused. "Although, if you want my humbly offered opinion - perhaps it takes quite a while to find she's come to an unfortunate fate - I must say I'm enjoying the amount he's been paying us and would hate to see that end anytime soon."

"Erik!" Antoinette tried and failed to replace her laughter with a stern look. 

She swatted at him with a stack of papers, but didn't say they would act contrary to his plan. He noticed this lack of correction and grinned. 

"Did you see Christine in Faust yet?" she changed the subject. 

Erik paused. Of course Antoinette didn't know that he had gone to every performance, all four of them so far, and had sat enraptured through each one. 

"La Carlotta is still sick, so she'll be out for another week. Christine will have two more turns at the role," she continued. "You should go see her, I think you'd enjoy it. And I'm sure she'd love it if after the performance you stopped by her dressing room to tell her she did well or something. She was on cloud nine the other day telling me about the people who had showed up at her door to compliment her, just like she was a famous diva."

"Oh?" 

Why did his heart do a funny little skip? 

"Perhaps I will," he finally murmured. "But I don't think she'd appreciate me showing up at her door, she's afraid of me, you know."

Antoinette looked surprised. Christine had never mentioned being afraid of Erik, but now that she thought of it, Christine had never mentioned Erik at all. 

"I don't think she's afraid you," she started. 

Erik scoffed. He could still hear her echoing scream from their first encounter, could still see the way her eyes would dart away from him when he'd look at her, still remembered the stutter in her voice whenever she found it necessary to address him directly. 

"Regardless, do you really think the poor girl wants to open her door and see _this_ standing there?" he gestured at his mask. 

"You're too hard on yourself," she shook her head. 

"I am only as hard on myself as life has necessitated I be," he stated. 

At the sound of her sigh, he frowned. He knew she didn't like this subject, didn't like to think of how his life was so different because of his face. She never thought differently of him because of it, and he thought that was very sweet of her, but he also felt it was rather naïve too. It might not make a difference to her, but she was in a very small minority in that opinion. Besides, _she_ had never screamed upon seeing him for the first time. 

"So the Robinson case is settled, what about the Jones case?" he offered, hoping there wouldn't be more to their conversation about his mask or Christine. 

Blessedly, she dropped the subject. 

The next evening he took part in the same ritual he had been for two past two weeks. He walked to the theater, hands in his pockets and gaze straight ahead of him, bought his ticket without eye contact, slouched down low in the closest chair towards the front as he dared to risk, and pulled his opera glasses out of a jacket pocket as soon as Christine came on stage. 

For those next hours the rest of the world ceased to be and all there was or ever would be was Christine, Christine, Christine, like the steady beat of his heart. She was, in a word, sublime. When the performance was over his ears were still ringing with the sweet intoxication of her voice, of her very soul that she poured into those notes projected throughout the theater. What was his life before he heard her? 

He lingered in the lobby, too embarrassed to ask where the performers' dressing rooms were, instead watching who went where and working it out from that. He slowly made his way to the hallway that he now knew her room would be down, pausing at the entrance for a moment. 

What would he even say to her? He barely spoke to her in all the times he'd seen her before. What if she opened the door and screamed again? No, he couldn't do this. 

He turned without ever even going down the hallway, walking out into the night. His hands were still shaking with nerves from the self-thwarted near encounter. He smiled wryly to himself as he shook his hands out. The best way to steady himself and gain some composure would surely be to sit at the organ keyboard for a while - and he already had a new aria buzzing in his head. 

The next two workdays passed in a haze for him, his mind constantly wandering to both his music and her voice. He wondered, perhaps, if he wrote something for her, would she agree to sing it? He could think of so many lovely pieces that would suit her voice... 

As he settled down into his seat one last time, the haze lifted and he felt real once again. He hung on every note, every pause, every gesture and movement of hers. 

When he left his seat after the curtains fell, he walked a few circles around the lobby, trying to gather his nerve. Who knows when La Carlotta would be sick again? For all intents and purposes, this was realistically Christine's last performance for the rest of the season - at least. If he wanted to say something to her at her door, this was it. There would be no second chances. 

He squeezed his hands into fists. Why was he so nervous? He hoped beyond anything that they could let bygones be bygones and start over together. He knew he was an imposing man, but surely if she could get past that then she'd find he wasn't too terrible to be around. 

He was sweating behind the mask, and it was starting to itch, but he couldn't be bothered with that right now. He'd go up to her door, knock politely, and maintaining a respectful distance from her, he'd bow and congratulate her on a wildly successful run. Perhaps he'd tell her that he was a musician, that he hadn't played in years and hadn't expected to ever again until he had heard her sing. He would thank her, of course. Perhaps he would kiss her hand... He had come prepared, wearing gloves and all. 

He started down the hallway which was crowded with various people there to give their respects to the lead actors and dancers, and some where even there for the cast from the smaller roles. Family members and friends and strangers from the audience all stood around various doors, some asking for autographs and some giving gifts. He should have brought her something, he thought to himself. Or was that too forward? 

He walked past a rather grubby man leaning against the wall who didn't seem to be there for anyone in particular, guzzling something from a flask only to stop and stare at Erik's face - or rather, Erik's mask. Erik raised an eyebrow - though no one would have known - and frowned at the man. The man shuddered and flinched under that yellow gaze, and Erik felt the fleeting gloat of possessing such power right along with a pang of self pity and concern that that very gaze would in mere moments be turned on a young woman whom he did not wish to frighten - again. 

The drunkard slipped from his mind like a ghost as he turned to see Christine's door was already open, her standing there and smiling down at a small girl of about ten for whom she was signing a program booklet. His mouth was suddenly dry and he forgot all the well rehearsed words he had planned to say. He was nearly there, nearly within distance to catch her eye, When from the opposite end of the hallway a young man arrived with a bouquet of pink roses on his arm. 

"Little Lottie!" the man cried, spreading his arms wide at the sight of Christine. 

"Raoul!" she cried, flinging herself into his embrace as he kissed the side of her face. "Oh, you made it! I've missed you so!"

Little Lotte? What the devil did that even mean? Lotte was in no way short for Christine. Clearly these two had history together, an inside joke or something to account for the pet name. Erik felt flushed and he was certain he was squeezing his hands so tightly that his knuckles must be bone white by now. 

"You're coming to dinner with me, Lotte, no excuses, now!" 

Christine laughed at this and agreed with him. 

Every last nerve Erik had managed to gather suddenly left him in a spectacular crash. What was he doing here? Why did he think she'd want to see him? That she would care about his stupid music he wrote in a musty old basement? This was madness, and he was a fool to ever think otherwise. 

He ducked his head and pushed on down the hallway, trying to walk as fast he could past her door without her noticing. 

"You pick the restaurant, Raoul, I'm fine with anything. And you simply must tell me every detail about Antarctica, and I'll tell you all about England and- oh!"

Christine pulled back from his embrace, a frown on her face as she scanned the crowd. For a moment, she had been almost certain that she had caught a glimpse of a familiar white mask above the many faces, but as soon as she had seen it, he had disappeared again. She stood on her tiptoes and peered down to the other end of the hallway. 

"What is it, Lottie?" 

She bit her lip. 

"Nothing, I suppose. I - I thought I saw someone I knew, that's all."

But what would Erik be doing here? No one came down this hallway unless it was to greet someone, but he had walked right past her. Did he know someone else here, maybe? She shook her head. She must have been imagining things. But still, she found the thought of Erik watching her performance was one that made her heart race. She wondered what he would have thought of how she did, if he would have liked her voice and if he thought she was better than La Carlotta in this role as several other performers had confided in her. 

"Never mind, Raoul. I'll be ready to go as soon as I change out of this costume."

He grinned. 

"Fifteen minutes!" 

She closed her door and sighed. Erik would not have come to her performance, she would have bet anything on this. He still hated her for how she had reacted to him at their first meeting. He could barely stand to even be in the same room as her, she had noticed how often he'd find excuses to leave when she was there. Of course he wouldn't pay money to watch her for two and a half hours. No one likes to be disliked, so of course it was unpleasant to know someone disliked her, but she found herself rather surprised by just how bitter the disappointment was that came along with those thoughts. With a flip of a switch, she turned off the lights in her dressing room as she left. Turning off her thoughts of Erik proved to be a far more difficult task.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik huffed and fumed at himself all the way back to his apartment. Was this _jealousy_ he felt burning in his chest? Over what? That boy? That _Raoul_? 

He had no reason to be jealous - after all, it's not like he wanted to be in that boy's place, hugging Christine like that and demanding she go to dinner with him... Did he? 

_Did he?_

No, no, it couldn't be that. Erik just wasn't like that. He didn't want... _Those things_. Although, a small part of his mind reasoned, that didn't mean he didn't want to have dinner with someone, or be able to give a hug to someone cared about. 

Cared about, he scoffed. When did he start _caring about_ Christine? The very nerve of him! She didn't want his care. 

Erik had made many bad choices in life, had done more regrettable things than he could count, but the one thing he could say for himself was that he had never made a stupid choice. Unsavory, cruel, wrong, illegal, even evil, but never stupid - until this night. Trying to talk to Christine at her dressing room door was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, and he _burned_ with shame at the thought of it. If he had actually gone through with it, he never would have lived it down. 

But still, for a few brief moments, it had seemed like such a good idea. Like he could have actually done it and it would have gone okay, like he could have been like any of those other people there chatting excitedly about the show. 

But he would never be like any of those other people. That was a lesson he thought he had learned a long time ago, but somehow, somehow he had let himself forget. Never again, he swore. He would never do anything so foolish again. 

He slammed the door to the office harder than necessary, hearing the hinges complain loudly, and even in the midst of his temper tantrum he mentally made a note to check on those in the morning and repair them. He stalked down to the basement and grabbed the half written compositions he had been working on, the ones for Christine's voice, and crumpled them in his fist. He yanked open a drawer and fumbled for a match, finally finding one and flipped it over his knuckles for a moment. A quick movement would be all it took, one scratch and those stanzas would go up in glorious flame, purged from the earth. 

He paused, lost in thought as he stared down at the match. 

He done the very same thing so many years ago in Persia. All of his compositions that he had worked his entire life on at that point, gone in a moment of rage and anguish. He still regretted that, what he had done. What he had lost, not because someone had taken it from him, as it had felt at the time. But what he had lost because he had thrown it all away. 

He put the match back in its box, and smoothed out the crumpled papers before stashing them away behind a stack of books on the bookshelf. Maybe one day, he told himself, one day he could look at those works again and not feel like this. Maybe in another twenty years. 

He sighed. Now that the fit was subsiding, all he was left with was growing ache in his head, the tension in his neck and shoulders. He wearily marched up the stairs, shucked off his jacket and vest, and fell onto the bed. Then, he realized with a groan that tomorrow was a work day. He scrawled a note for Antoinette, hoping it was legible enough, and left it on her desk before returning to bed, and this time he remembered to take his shoes and mask off. 

There was no one to be mad at but himself, he thought as he blinked blearily into the pillow. It wasn't Christine's fault she was frightened, it wasn't Antoinette's fault that she wanted him to be able to do normal things like a normal person, and it wasn't that boy's fault he was in possession of the most perfect nose Erik had ever seen. 

He was awoken in the afternoon by the sound of high pitched sobbing. He jolted upright, wincing at the pain still lingering from the previous night, and had to stifle the urge to simply run downstairs and see what the matter was. 

"My dear, what's wrong?" 

He heard Antoinette's fearful voice and a tear-choked voice that, by the time he finished dressing and righting his wig, he realized was Christine's. He caught pieces here and there of what was being said, but it was difficult to follow her story entirely. 

He made sure that his footfalls on the stairs were extra loud as he descended slowly, wincing at each one magnified in his own head. 

When he finally arrived downstairs he scowled at how bright it was. Antoinette was sitting on the edge of her desk, a comforting hand placed on Christine's shoulder. There was a letter in Antoinette's hands, and she frowned down at as she read it again and again. Christine looked up from sobbing into her hands, saw Erik, and cringed. 

Erik looked away, hoping to lessen her discomfort, and took the long way around the desk to stand by Antoinette and read the letter over her shoulder, avoiding having to be near Christine as much as he could. 

Christine sniffled into her hands, mortified. She must have snot dripping down her nose, she thought. How undignified. She knew she struggled to look presentable on a good day, and crying her heart out certainly hadn't improved matters in regards to that. 

"Oh, I'm so afraid, Madame," she managed between hiccups. "W-what if h-he's...? Oh!" 

"We'll find him, Christine, I'm sure he'll be fine until we find him. Look, dear, they wouldn't want a ransom if they intended to harm him."

Antoinette handed the letter to Erik and moved to embrace Christine. 

"You have to tell us everything about what happened last night, okay? Even the smallest detail might mean something, so don't leave anything out." 

Erik scanned the letter once, then twice, then again. 

"Who the devil is Philippe," he stated. 

Antoinette clicked her tongue at him. 

"Erik! Show some decorum, please."

"What? The letter is addressed to Philippe, yet Christine brings it to us. Why?"

"It's about R-Raoul," Christine tried to explain, looking up at Erik. 

Oh. Raoul. Erik stared back at Christine, who flinched away from his stare, but continued on. 

"He g-got this letter this morning, you see. I was out with Raoul last night, after my performance - I was in the opera - and afterwards we went out for dinner, and I guess - I guess when we parted I went home and he... Well, he never turned up. And Philippe - that's Raoul's older brother, you know - Philippe received this letter this morning."

"And Philippe is not here because? Too busy to look for his little brother?" Erik sniffed. 

"Philippe- he insisted that I bring it here," she countered weakly. 

"And _why_?" Erik drawled. 

Christine's face flushed. 

"Well, he didn't tell me why." 

"And you just agreed to let yourself be dragged into this for no good reason? This letter makes no mention of you at all, this matter is seemingly between that boy and his brother."

Christine was flustered at this and didn't know what to say. It was the most he'd ever spoken to her, and it was to scold her. 

Antoinette shot him a glare. 

"Oh, don't mind Erik, dear, he's just a grumpy old man."

"Hmm," Erik offered no denial, but he also offered no apologies. 

He rose with a long-suffering sigh and made his way to the tea cart in the corner. He tuned out the soft murmurings of Antoinette as she tried to help Christine steady herself, instead putting his entire focus into the tea he was preparing. He then returned to the desk, placing a cup for Antoinette and surprising Christine by placing a cup in front of her as well. She looked up, hoping to make eye contact, but he was already facing away from her, drinking from his own cup. 

"Thank you," she told him softly, but he made no acknowledgement and she wasn't certain if he had even heard her. 

The warm silken taste of chamomile wrapped around her and she managed a small smile. 

"Do you have any sugar?" she asked. 

Erik turned at this. 

"Sugar isn't good for your voice," he said flatly. 

"Neither is crying, Monsieur," she countered promptly. 

Well. She had a point. He brought the sugar bowl over for her. 

"Whenever you're ready, Christine," Antoinette told her kindly. 

Christine nodded and took a few more moments before beginning. 

"Well, it was just after my performance, and I was in my dressing room. I had my door open, and there were a few fans there to talk to me - a little girl, two women, and then Raoul."

Antoinette nodded, writing down her notes. 

"Raoul asked me to go to dinner with him."

_Asked._ That wasn't how Erik remembered it. 

"So I told him I needed to change out of my costume and then I did, and we went to dinner."

"Where?" Antoinette asked. 

"The Italian place on Rue Cambon."

"Details," Antoinette prompted. 

"Well, we sat out in the middle at a table, we both had pasta, we- we had some wine... Rather a lot of wine, I suppose," she blushed. "So we had to get a cab to drive us back. Then we, ah-"

Erik trained his gaze on the floor. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the rest of this, and he stifled the urge to shift around in his chair, uncomfortable. 

"Ha, well, you see, Raoul had the driver drop us off in the middle of the street and we- we continued on with our night."

Christine seemed to pause there, waiting for Giry to finish writing, but once Giry had finished and looked up expectantly, Christine was still silent, anxiously twisting her handkerchief between her hands. 

"And then?" Giry asked. 

"Uh, well," Christine cleared her throat. 

Erik was about to suggest that perhaps Christine would be more comfortable telling the rest of that night's activities if he were not in the room, and was surprised that the normally tactful Antoinette had not caught on to this. 

"And _then_ , well, we walked around for a bit, and we-" 

She looked nervously back and forth between the two of them and gave a fearful giggle. 

"Well, I mean, you're not going to tell the cops, are you? Can you- can you keep some things, you know, off the record?" 

Antoinette's eyebrows shot up. 

"I can't promise that for certain, Christine," she said slowly. "But I won't take anything to the police without a very good reason for it - if it will help us find him, I might have to."

"We, er, we _went_ to the zoo, as it were," she offered. 

Erik placed his elbow on the table, resting his chin in his palm and letting his fingers and hand cover what little was left visible of his face under the mask. The gesture implied he listening, was interested, but it also provided him absolute privacy for his facial expressions - an excellent way to hide the smirk that was playing across his face at that very moment. 

He, too, had broken into the zoo while it was closed on numerous occasions in the past. He liked the animals, but didn't care for the crowds of people, and he certainly didn't care a fig about the "no trespassing" sign on the locked gates. 

"So we walked around the zoo for about an hour... Raoul had saved up some breadsticks from dinner, and we, well, we fed them to some of the birds, you see."

"Bread isn't good for them, you shouldn't," Erik interjected from behind his hand, but his golden eyes were shining with mirth at the thought of Christine's exploits. 

"I know, I told him that, but he insisted they'd be fine 'just this once, Christine!', and he did it anyway," she shrugged helplessly. 

"Is there anything else?" Erik asked. 

"Oh, um- ha ha, well, Raoul loves cats, you know- and there's an exhibit of lovely black-footed cats from Africa," she twisted the handkerchief in earnest once more. "He quite wanted to- to _appropriate_ one so he could keep it as a pet - and it really is a darling little cat - but I stopped him before he could go in the exhibit. He was terribly close to jumping over the fence, you see."

"And then?" Erik prompted. 

Antoinette was trying her best to look disapproving, the silent laughing shaking her shoulders ruined the look. 

"Well, it was quite late by then-"

"What time?" Erik cut in. 

"Past midnight, I'm sure... I don't know the exact hour. So then he dropped me off at my apartment and that was the last I saw of him."

"Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?" Antoinette asked. 

Christine shook her head. 

"No, nothing. I keep thinking that if only I had paid more attention, or if we had a little less wine, maybe I would have seen something, but-"

She cut herself off, at a loss. 

Erik held up the letter. 

"They mention a debt to be paid - can you tell us anything about that?"

Christine frowned. 

"No, I don't know anything about that. Raoul didn't mention any debts, at least not to me," she paused. "But he is the new patron of the Opera Populaire. He invested quite a lot, from what I hear."

"We'll have to talk to Philippe, and the restaurant, and the opera managers," Antoinette mused out loud. "You take the restaurant, I'll take the manager's and the cab driver, and I want us each to talk to Philippe separately." 

"What about me, what do I do?" Christine asked anxiously. 

"Nothing yet, dear," Antoinette told her. "If we need anything else we'll contact you."

Christine nodded unhappily. 

When she had left Erik and Antoinette set out to begin their questioning.


	5. Chapter 5

The head waiter eyed Erik suspiciously as he approached. A flick of the wrist and Erik produced his badge from the sleeve of his trench coat and showed it to the man, which if anything heightened the waiter's suspicion. 

"I'm investigating a missing persons case and would appreciate your assistance in the matter," his words were polite but his tone brokered no debate. "Did you notice anything suspicious last night? Any odd customers?"

It turned out it had been a slow evening the night before, the only customers were regulars there - and many of them performers or crew from the opera. Erik took down a list of their names just in case, and spoke to more of the staff who had also worked that evening. All agreed it had been a normal night - mostly small groups of singers celebrating after the show, a few stage hands here and there, and several customers who were not usual guests of the establishment but also didn't draw much attention. 

At the Opera Populaire, Antoinette was inquiring about Raoul's new position as patron. 

"He's been quite generous," the manager shrugged. "There seems to be no limit to what he's willing to spend. He doesn't strike me as... The _brightest_ young man, but he's very likable. I can't imagine anyone wanting to harm him."

Antoinette nodded. 

"He hasn't mentioned any kind of troubles? Has he made reference to any kind of a debt, or owing someone something?"

"No, nothing of the sort." 

"Have you ever met his brother, Philippe?"

"He's often spoken of his brother - he thinks the world of him - but I've never met the man, no."

Antoinette scribbled down a note and was about to ask another question when the door tentatively opened and a young girl from the concierge entered, frowning. 

"Someone just dropped off this letter, they said it was urgent," she held out an envelope to the manager. 

He opened it quickly and turned pale. 

"Wha- what's the meaning of this, then?" he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped at his brow. 

Antoinette reached for the letter and looked at its contents. 

"No, no... Who gave this to you? What did he look like?"

The girl fidgeted nervously, unsure of what was going on. 

"He was average height, a big grey cloak, black boots... He had a good up, I couldn't see him very well."

The words were barely out of her mouth before Antoinette shot up and ran down the hallway at full speed, past the concierge desk and out into the street. 

She ran first one direction, then the other, eyes wildly searching all the while, but she could catch no sight of the man who left the letter. He was gone. Her gaze drifted down to that letter still clutched in her shaking hand, that familiar spindly script forming words that made her blood run cold. Written by the same hand that wrote Raoul's ransom note. She seemed frozen there in the middle of the sidewalk for a moment, the world rushing on by while all she could think of was the threat to Christine spelled out in those thin mocking ink lines. The stupor broke and she ran back inside the Opera House, down to the ballet rehearsal rooms where she knew Meg would be practicing. 

"Where is Christine?!" 

Meg jumped at the sudden surprise, Antoinette's fear seeping into her as well. 

"She was just here, why? What's happened?" 

"She isn't safe - we need to find her right now!" 

Meg darted out of the room and her mother followed. 

Christine was found wandering a hallway, blissfully ignorant. 

"Christine!" Meg threw her arms around her. 

"Meg! What's happened?" Christine asked in wonder. 

"I don't know, but Maman said you weren't safe! Are you okay?"

Christine felt panic rising up in her. 

"I- I think so?"

Antoinette reached them moments later. 

"Oh, Christine," she breathed. "You need to come with me, my dear. I'm afraid something has happened."

Christine raised a hand to cover her mouth, tears forming in her eyes as she noticed the letter in Antoinette's hand. 

"Is it Raoul?"

"No, dear," Antoinette paused. "It's about you."

Even after sitting in Giry's office for the past hour, making idle small talk with Meg, Christine can't shake the tremble to her hands. Antoinette had let her read the letter after Christine had practically demanded then begged to be able to do so, but only after the door was locked. 

"Jammes was so mad that the costumes for the second dance are going to be red - she says it'll look awful with her hair. But you know, I'm quite pleased with it because it looks just lovely with _my_ hair."

Meg gave her long, black hair a flip, reveling in it finally being down out of a bun for a change. 

"Jammes doesn't think anything looks good with her hair," Christine rolled her eyes. 

Meg nodded. 

"I told her to just wear a wig if she's so particular about it, and she got mad at me, can you imagine? I was just trying to help!"

Christine managed a giggle in spite of herself. She loved her friend for her attempts at distraction, but she didn't think anything could ever set her mind at ease until this whole ordeal was over. 

Still, she tried to lose herself in Meg's gossip about the other ballet girls, until suddenly the locked doorknob rattled, shattering the stillness and making both girls jump. Antoinette stood quickly from behind her desk, reaching underneath for the weapon she stored there. 

In the midst of her fear, Christine marveled at Antoinette. When something happened that caused most other people to flinch backwards, Antoinette was lurching forwards, courageously putting herself in between danger and its target so that she could put an end to it, without any thought for herself. Christine longed to be that brave one day. 

The noise of the knob rattling was replace with the sound of a key turning. 

Erik opened the door and was greeted with the sight of Christine clinging to Meg on the couch and Antoinette posed in such a stance that he knew she was holding a small pistol under the desk. 

He paused, glancing at each face, before entering the office and quickly locking the door behind him once again. 

"I take you all had a more interesting afternoon than I did."

Antoinette had slumped against the desk as soon as she realized it was him, but quickly produced the letter regarding Christine and showed it to Erik. His expression turned dark as he read it. 

"This was delivered to the manager's office when I was there this morning," she told him. 

"The same handwriting, is it not," he murmured. 

"Yes. I want Christine under constant supervision until this perpetrator is found." 

Erik nodded his agreement. 

"I need you to stay here and keep an eye on her while I go see the Comte," she continued before turning to a dress Christine. "When I get back Meg and I will escort you to your apartment, where we'll help you pack everything you'll need. You'll be staying with us until we get this all sorted out."

Christine nodded mutely. Her mind was still reeling. Just this morning everything had been going about in a fairly normal manner, and suddenly everything was turned upside down and she felt like she was on the run. 

With that Antoinette left to question Philippe. Erik turned to the girls on the couch, pulling his notes out of his pocket and settling himself behind the desk where Antoinette had been moments earlier. 

"What can you tell me about these people from the Opera?"

He read each name off of the list, pausing to hear their opinions before moving on to the next. 

"La Sorelli at a restaurant?" Meg scoffed. "She actually eats?"

"La Sorelli is too sweet to be involved with anything like this," Christine shook her head. 

"Isabell and Peter are too busy planning their elopement to have time for kidnapping," Meg said decisively. 

"What?" Christine looked confused. 

"Oh," Meg clapped a hand over her mouth. "That was supposed to be a secret... Jospeh Boquet? He's drunk off his ass most of the time and I doubt he has enough brain cells left to plan a dinner let alone something like this."

"Meg!" 

"Are you denying it, Christine?" Meg sniffed. "You know it's true."

"It's true, but you shouldn't _say it_!"

"And Katrina is a horrid old busybody, in everyone's business. She's so petty, but she couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it, so it definitely isn't her."

Erik raised an eyebrow at the description that Meg delivered without a hint of self awareness. 

"None of them would have reason to extort the Comte?" Erik asked. 

"No, no reason I can think of," Christine bit her lip. 

She didn't think there was a reason, but as of a hour ago she wasn't so certain of anything anymore. 

Erik thanked them for their help and focused on clarifying his notes for when Antoinette got back. 

Christine felt too shy to continue to gossip with Erik in the room, grabbing a pillow off the couch and hugging it to herself as though to add another layer of protection against his gaze even though he wasn't looking at her. Meg flipped through a magazine, pointing out pictures and articles to Christine, until finally they reached the end of it and she tossed it back on the table in a huff. 

"Can Christine and I go get a soda from the corner store?" she asked presently. 

"No," Erik didn't bother to look up. 

"We can be back in five minutes."

"No."

"What if you went with us?" Meg tried hopefully. 

Erik paused, finally looking up. 

"Definitely not, then."

Meg dramatically threw her arm over her face and leaned back on the couch, Christine burying her face in the cushion to keep from laughing. 

" _Erik_ ," Meg whined. "We are _bored_."

Without a word Erik reached into a desk drawer, pulled out a deck of cards in a small box, and threw them at her. They bounced off of her shoulder and she gave a small yelp. She picked them up with a loud sigh and a pointedly doleful look at Erik - which he entirely ignored. 

Meg gave up her hopes of going out and began setting up for a card game with Christine. They played for what seemed an eternity to Christine, and she began to wonder if this was what her life was going to be like for the foreseeable future. 

"Meg," she whispered. "If I have to play one more game of rummy, I am going to lose my mind and scream."

Meg snickered. 

At that moment Antoinette returned and saved them from the deck of cards. The rattle of the key startled the girls once again, while Erik merely looked up attentively and made an odd motion with his wrist. 

Antoinette stormed in, a scowl on her face. 

"It's only me, Erik, put your lasso away," she sighed. 

Christine tried to get a better look at the arm he had moved when he heard the door opening. Did he have some kind of weapon up his sleeve? 

"How did it go?" he chuckled. 

"Damn that Comte," Antoinette muttered. "He was so uncooperative, he flat out refused to answer certain questions, and he insinuated that this was a situation better left to the _men_."

Erik steepled his fingers and watched his partner fume as she paced the room. 

"Shall I rough him up for you?" he offered. 

She gave him a small glare. 

"It wouldn't have to be very bad, just a little, you know," he continued. "I could go at night, wear a different mask, he wouldn't even know it was me."

Antoinette rubbed at her temples, sighing. 

"As tempting as that sounds, I believe your standard verbal lashing will work just as well," she dropped her notebook on the desk. "Read over what I managed to get and prepare accordingly. I'll watch Christine the rest of the day and tomorrow while you're at the Comte's, then you'll have her the next three days."

_You'll have her the next three days._

"W-what?" Erik stuttered. 

Antoinette continued on as though she hadn't heard. 

"I'll take her over the weekend, and on Wednesday, and you'll watch her the rest of the time."

" _What_?"

"What?"

"Antoinette..." his tone bordered on whining. "Why am _I_ watching her the majority of the time?"

Antoinette raised an eyebrow. 

"I'm sorry, Erik, did you have other plans?"

Erik looked at Christine with an air of dismay. 

Christine was hugging the pillow tightly again, blinking hard. She felt like a child once more, having to be foisted onto someone who didn't want to have to care for her but had no choice. Mamma Valerius had been good to her, but there had been several families she had had to stay with after her papa died and before living with Mamma that had been less than enthusiastic about having to care for her. 

All Erik could see, however, was a young woman who clearly didn't like hearing who she was going to be spending the majority of her time with. 

Christine glanced up at him, inwardly wincing at how he was looking at her with such disappointment, such disapproval. He didn't want her around him, and it brought back feelings and memories she'd rather forget. 

"Please, Madame - can't I stay with you the whole time?" she pleaded. 

"Erik, you've always done all of the surveillance in the past, I don't see why this is any different. Christine, dear, you'll be staying with me every night and three days a week, I wish I could accommodate your wishes more, but I do have one more case I'm currently working and I can't always have you there for that. Erik will be able to accompany you to your work, and you can spend your days off with me."

She paused and glanced at both disappointed faces. 

"And the quicker we all get used to this arrangement, the quicker we can find this scoundrel and no one will have to watch anyone anymore. Now, is that settled?"

Christine nodded and Erik slouched down in his seat, resigned to his fate. 

"Good. Christine, are you ready to go to your apartment?"

Christine's mind was still reeling on the walk to her apartment, a vague fear that someone might jump out from around the corner and attempt to spirit her off to some place no one would ever find her again. Antoinette and Meg on either side of her did little to calm that fear. She half wanted to insist that the Opera simply pay the requested sum in the letter so that she wouldn't have to worry anymore, but that amount of money would bankrupt them. Pay the bankrupting fee, or have their new star taken from them. Neither would happen if Antoinette had any say in it, but as the Opera certainly would not be paying, Christine was wary of the other options. 

As she attempted to sort through her belongings to find what she could not live without, her mind tried to get used to what her life was about to become. She had to admit that from a purely scientific viewpoint, Erik would make a better security guard than Madame Giry - it was merely a given that someone that tall would also be stronger as well, although she knew from past experience that Madame could most definitely knock a man out cold. Still, she didn't relish the thought of spending so much time with him. He was so awkward to be around. She had such trouble reading his mood because she couldn't see his face, and she was afraid that any glance not directed at his eyes would make him think she was _staring_ at the mask, but any eye contact that lingered then felt like she was staring at his unusual eyes and then she'd have to look away, flustered - only for that to give the impression that there was something about him that made her not want to look at him. 

She sighed wearily just thinking about it. 

She hadn't even given a thought to how work would go. She had a show coming up, a small show featuring a few singers performing some solos, and she had been added to the lineup after her excellent run during Faust. Would he have to be there for that? Would he have to stand on stage with her? She would feel ridiculous doing that. Just how close an eye did he need to keep on her? Would he- would he have to be in her dressing room with her? A blush rose up on her cheeks thinking about it. 

"Why are you making that face?" Meg asked as she helped her pack her toothbrush and floss. 

Christine rolled her eyes. 

"I was just thinking... I'm not used to spending so much time around a man in such close quarters, especially one I barely know. It just feels... awkward, doesn't it?" she lowered her voice. "I'm so glad your mother is letting me stay at your place - I simply can't imagine having to stay overnight with _him_."

Meg smothered a wicked smirk and asked in her most innocent tone, "Oh, because he lives at the office?"

Christine gave her a knowing glare as they made their way to the small living room. 

"You know what I mean, Meg. I can't picture having to spend the night with a- a _man_. It just feels... _improper_ , even if it isn't like that at all. I know it's probably silly of me, but I can't help how I feel," she gave a small shrug. 

Meg snickered and put an arm around Christine's shoulders. 

"I don't think you're silly. But you don't have to fret over it because you're staying with us. Besides, Erik isn't even attracted to girls."

"Oh, like Raoul?"

Meg shook her head. 

"No, he doesn't like boys, either. He just doesn't like anyone, not in that way."

Antoinette caught part of the conversation for the first time. 

"Meg!" she admonished her daughter. "That's terribly rude - you shouldn't tell that sort of information about someone unless you explicitly know they're okay with you telling other people."

"I know, Maman, but it's not as if he's keeping it a secret - I'm sure he'd tell if he was asked, and I know Christine won't think anything bad of it..." she glanced sheepishly at her friend. "And I know she's good at keeping secrets, better than I am, at least..."

Antoinette sighed. 

"Valid points, but please try to limit who you broadcast personal information to in the future."

"Of course, Maman. I will use the utmost discretion, you have my word."

Christine disguised her laugh as a cough - she could never keep a straight face when Meg's eye sparkled like that. 

"Go pack some dresses for Christine, Meg," she handed her a suitcase for the chosen dresses and waited till Meg was out of the room before turning and addressing Christine. 

Her mind lingered on Erik's previous words about Christine being afraid of him, on how she had asked to not have him as her guard, and now on the snippet of conversation she had overheard. 

"Christine, dear," her voice was soft. "If you truly do not wish to have to be around him, I can work something out. I do not wish for you to be uncomfortable - would you prefer I make other arrangements for you, ones that don't include Erik?"

Christine hesitated. She knew Giry would go to the ends of the earth to accommodate her wishes if she so asked. She also knew that it would be rather a burden on Giry, likely taking away from other case she was investigating, or even a burden on herself - if Giry couldn't take enough time off for Christine's rehearsals and shows, then Christine would have to drop out of the show. Erik wouldn't be terribly pleased with having to watch her, and he would probably also consider having to do so a burden... And it was selfish of her, she knew, but if there had to be a burden - let it be on Erik. She would not drop out of her show and she would not delay the missing child from the other case being brought back home safely because of her own awkward feelings. 

"No, it's alright. I think you were right before - it'll go quicker this way. I don't mind, really."

"If you ever change your mind, please do not hesitate to tell me. But I think you'll be quite safe with Erik - I trust him with life, and he's never let me down yet. I know he be a little... much, at times, but he's fiercely loyal, and can be quite funny. He's warm, too, in his own way. It just takes him a while to feel comfortable around new people and open up. He's had a very difficult past, you know, people have treated him very poorly because of-"

Antoinette threw up her hands and huffed. 

"Well, and right after I reprimanded Meg, here I am doing the same thing. I wonder where she gets it from."

Giry smiled wryly and shook her head. 

"We can fix this, my dear - we will simply pretend that none of these conversations ever took place. What Erik doesn't know won't hurt him... _hopefully_." 

This drew a small chuckle from Christine, who was picking nervously at the hem of her sleeve and thinking back on how she had treated him at their first meeting. Surely begging to not be around him mere hours ago hadn't made the situation between them any better, but she consoled herself by remembering that he had been the first to complain about having to watch her. 

Once everything was packed and transported to the Girys' small house, Christine spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking what she could. She helped Antoinette cook dinner, and insisted on washing the dishes afterwards, saying it was the least she could do to repay her kindness. 

That evening she and Meg stayed awake far too late, whispering and giggling and feeling like they fifteen again and bunking in the Opera House together. Christine lay on the thin mattress of the trundle bed and stared up at the shiny foil stars pasted on the ceiling and listened to Meg talk about the choreography she was working on. For the first time that day since hearing about the letter, she felt safe, and her heart felt full at knowing how much her friends cared for her even after all this time. In that moment it was easy to believe that Raoul would be back with them soon, safe at last.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When all you want to write are the Erik and Christine scenes but those make no sense without any context so you have to throw together a plot and hope it works D:

Erik took in the lavish estate of the Comte as he walked up to the front door. It was one of those places that he'd be quick to dismiss as needlessly gaudy, far too overdone - but if given the chance to own such a place, secretly he'd accept in a heartbeat. He rang the doorbell and waited. A servant opened the door and began to greet him, but the greeting died on her tongue and her face turned pale. 

"The Comte is expecting me, would you please tell him that the investigator is here?" Erik asked in his most honeyed tone, hoping to set her at ease. 

She gave a small nod and wordlessly closed the door a little harder than necessary. 

He wondered if Antoinette had been invited in to wait while Philippe was notified, but he stifled any thought of jealousy. Even if she had been treated to a more polite greeting, that was where the politeness had ended, from what she had told him. 

The door opened again to reveal the face of the Comte peeking around the corner with much suspicion. 

"Philippe, I presume?"

The Comte opened the door wider. 

"Ah, yes, you must be that Erik fellow. Come in, come in," he ushered him into the house, leading him to a parlor. Erik took a sweeping glance at what he could see of the house before he entered the parlor and sat on the chair Philippe gestured to. Gaudy and overdone, indeed. Erik was already mentally redecorating it all. 

"I must say, I'm glad to finally have you here. I was wondering when the investigator would should up," Philippe began. 

Erik tilted his head in mock confusion. 

"I was under the impression that you had already spoken with an investigator. Is this not the case, Monsieur?" 

"Ah, well, you see, I meant a _real_ investigator... A woman did come by earlier, but-" he gave a little shrug. 

Erik paused as though he didn't understand, letting the silence go on for just a tad too long to be comfortable. 

"But that was my boss, Monsieur?"

Philippe squirmed and Erik felt a smug satisfaction at his obvious discomfort. 

"Well, yes, she said she was an investigator, but... You know how women are," he chuckled a little, giving a wave of his hand as though he and Erik had some inside joke that they both shared. 

Erik, however, was having none of it. He squinted his eyes and tilted his head the other direction, projecting confusion. 

"I'm afraid I don't follow. Women are... How, exactly?"

Philippe's face fell and in place of answering he simply got up and poured himself a brandy. 

"Say, aren't you here to discuss Raoul, anyway? Why don't we get to that?"

"Of course, Monsieur."

"Brandy?"

"No, thank you."

"What kind of a man doesn't like brandy?" Philippe glanced behind him, as though Erik were some odd insect pinned to a board. 

Erik stiffened slightly. 

"I prefer to not drink while I'm working."

Philippe snickered. 

"You lack the constitution to be able to keep your head about you after just one drink, Monsieur? A pity, truly."

"Headaches. Alcohol triggers some terrible headaches for me," he gestured with a finger to his head. 

It was only half of the reason, but it was still true. Philippe didn't need to know that he'd sworn off anything he could become addicted to ages ago after the fierce struggle of abandoning the terrible vice he'd picked up in Persia. No one need to know _that_. 

"Strange," Philippe replied in tone that was vague about what exactly he thought was strange - the headaches or Erik himself. 

Erik tried to push it from his mind, knowing that Philippe was trying to get under his skin about it because he had pressed the matter regarding Antoinette. 

"Where were you on the night Raoul disappeared?"

Philippe choked on his brandy. 

"Good heavens man - are you accusing me?"

"It was merely a question."

"I was here all evening, any of my servants can back me up on that," he sniffed. 

"Can you think of anyone who want to harm your brother?"

A wince and an attempt to hide it behind his glass of brandy. 

"I can't imagine that they would want to harm him."

"They?"

He glanced up to meet Erik's gaze. 

"Anyone. Raoul is- he's a good boy. He's not the type to make enemies, you understand."

Erik wondered how many enemies Philippe had. 

"Does Raoul owe any money to anyone?"

"Who wouldn't he owe money to, now that he's sunk it all into that damn Opera House?" he huffed and downed the rest of his brandy in one go. 

"So he owes money, then? To whom?"

Philippe got up and made to pour himself another drink. 

"No, no, Raoul doesn't owe anyone in particular, as far as I'm aware..."

He fiddled with a few papers that were in a wooden box near the bottle of brandy before continuing. 

"It's just that if he did, you see, he wouldn't have very much to pay anyone, not now."

Erik tried to glance at the papers Philippe was lingering over. The Conte seemed about to say something, his brow furrowing and his eyes sad. Then he seemed to think the better of it, snapping the lid closed on the box and thwarting Erik's attempts to see what was written on the papers. 

"Do you owe anyone, Comte?"

All traces of that soft sadness disappeared, anger taking its place. 

"Do I look like a man who would skip out on his responsibilities, one who would foolishly spend a sum that I didn't have?" 

Erik noticed the pointed lack of an answer. 

"I believe you're taking my questions in a way that I'm not intending, Comte. I'm not here to judge your personal affairs, I merely want to help you get your brother back safely. Any answer you can give me brings us one step closer to bringing Raoul home."

Philippe nodded unhappily. 

"How are you acquainted with Christine Daae?" 

Philippe looked surprised. 

"The little opera singer? Why, we've known her for ages. We go way back, you know," he waved his hand vaguely. "She and Raoul were childhood sweethearts, practically inseparable, those two."

Erik felt a prickle of emotion at this, though really it was nothing he hadn't already known, was it? But it was still a surprise to hear it out loud, to know that their relationship went so far back. 

"Obviously Raoul knows her better than I do, but she's like one of the family... Why uh, why do you ask?"

Erik noticed the Comte's reactions were getting a little slower. 

"Mademoiselle Daae has been the next target of who we believe is the same person holding Raoul."

Philippe wiped his hand over his face, despair and regret written obviously across his countenance. 

"Christine too? I don't- what would they want with her? She doesn't have any money, not really..."

"They want a ransom from the Opera House."

His expression soured. 

"Oh, it figures," he grumbled. 

Erik felt certain that Philippe knew more than he was telling. The only trouble now was how to get him to spill his secrets. 

Philippe sighed and placed his empty glass on the table, gazing longingly at it. 

"Poor girl, she doesn't deserve this, what a cruel fate to draw her in to something she wasn't involved with... A mere matter of circumstance, it seems."

Erik cleared his throat. 

"Perhaps, Comte, I ah- I would like that brandy after all, of you don't mind too terribly."

"Yes, yes, of course," he stood to get him a glass. 

Erik paused when Philippe handed it to him. 

"Oh, come now, Comte - you aren't going to let me drink alone now, are you?" 

Philippe hesitated. 

"No, I- I suppose not," he refilled his own glass. 

Erik brought the glass to his lips, tipping it back just enough to give the appearance of drinking without any of the liquid inside touching his lips. 

Philippe wasn't even paying attention to whether or not Erik was taking actual sips of the drink, however. He took a swig of his own. 

"I noticed you have a very lovely garden in front, Comte. Horticulture is a noble pursuit," Erik stalled. 

"Ah, yes, thank you - it's a bit of a hobby of mine," the man preened. 

"Are you a man of many hobbies?" Erik drawled, taking another fake drink. 

"Why yes, actually. I'm quite the equestrian, as well. I like a good swim on a sunny day - we have a pool out back. And of course I've never been one to turn down a good game of cards," he chuckled. 

"Does your brother share those hobbies too?"

He shook his head, standing with only a slight sway to refill his glass. 

"Raoul's only hobby is that damn Opera House," he sighed. "He always loved music ever since he was a child, but the poor fellow can't hold a tune to save his life, so he prefers to listen and watch instead."

Erik took the opportunity to discreetly dump his brandy into the small potted plant on the table when Philippe's back was turned, handing him the empty glass when he turned back to him. 

"Did he fund the Opera House because of Christine?" Erik finally asked. 

He told himself that his interest in the answer was strictly professional, but that wasn't the first lie Erik had ever told himself. He simply couldn't pass up the chance to learn more about those two. 

"He did. He'd always talked of doing such a thing when they were younger - buying his love an Opera House so that she could sing anything she ever wanted," he snorted. 

He sat heavy in his chair, the extra brandy clearly showing its effects. 

"Christine... She doesn't deserve this, you know... She's- she's a good girl," Philippe looked emotional again, his words starting to slur. "I- I never intended for it to go this far..."

Erik hung on his every word, waiting for him to continue. It seemed, instead, that Philippe was on the verge of dozing off. 

"What did you intend, Philippe?" he asked softly. 

"I'll put a stop to it, I'll find a way," he muttered. "She has such a pure heart, you know... She always has. No, this isn't her burden to shoulder... She'll... She'll be alright. I'll fix it."

"Fix what, Philippe?"

A snore. 

"Philippe?" Erik reached over and shook his arm. 

Philippe merely leaned to the side in his chair, out cold. 

Erik huffed. Perhaps he had overdone it with the brandy - but it certainly had loosened the man's tongue. 

Erik was about to look in the wooden box when the door opened and a servant appeared and insistently escorted him to the front door. Erik briefly wondered if the servant had been listening to his and the Comte's conversation to know when to enter the room. Perhaps the Comte often drank just a little too much. 

He returned to the office and pulled out the typewriter, wanting to get the entire conversation transcribed from his messy notes into something Antoinette could actually read. 

He cursed the Comte as he typed. That utter fool. What was he playing at, holding things back from the very people who could be helping him? Why even get investigators involved if he was only going to hide things from them? Did he not want his brother back? 

He finished transcribing the notes and set about typing his theories and observations, creating a list of questions he wanted to follow up with. The Comte certainly hadn't seen the last of Erik or Antoinette. 

He realized he needed to question Christine next, but she had dress rehearsal the next day and a show after that... He was hesitant to press her for information when she was otherwise distracted - perhaps she wouldn't quite remember her conversation with Philippe if she was busy trying to prepare for her show, and he wanted to hear her sing the best she could - and she couldn't do that if he was pestering her with questions. Maybe it was selfish of him to feel that way, but he rationalized it to himself by saying that if the man's own brother didn't even care to help find him, then the little Vicomte could surely wait another day or so for Christine to finish her show. 

Her show. He took off his mask and rubbed at his eyes. He was looking forward to hearing her sing, of course, but he only wished it were under different circumstances. 

Erik woke the next day with a vague sense of dread. It would be the first of his days with Christine in his care. As much as he wanted to linger in bed, putting off the inevitable, he knew that she had to be at the opera before a certain time and he didn't wish to make her late. 

He arrived promptly at Antoinette's house and the door opened immediately after he rang the doorbell. There stood Christine, her large purse over her shoulder, her face set stoically in grim determination. He thought she looked more reminiscent of a woman going to meet her executioner than of a diva readying herself for a rehearsal - but perhaps with him in tow the former was more fitting after all. 

She stepped out silently and quickly locked the door before sighing as she began the trek to her workplace. 

Erik was silent. He felt he should have greeted her, at least, but she had opened the door so suddenly that it surprised him and then after that it seemed too late to say a greeting - and now he didn't know what to say at all. Should he mention he went to see all of her performances? No, that felt like something a stalker would say. 

Christine tied her best to glance over at him without being conspicuous. It was a difficult feat, with the height difference and how close he was. She could only manage a view of his shoulder at most - not that his face was likely to give away any clue as to his mood, anyway. The utter quiet was making her anxious. She needed to say something - anything - just something inoffensive and a good conversation starter. 

"Isn't this such lovely weather we've been having? Not a cloud in sight, just beautiful sunshine," she tried. 

"I hate sunshine."

"Oh," she hung her head. 

_Drat_. Well, how was she supposed to reply to that? So much for conversation. 

Erik quietly cursed himself when he saw her wilt under his response. He hated that his normal eloquence seemed to abandon him whenever she was involved. 

"I prefer the clouds, as sunlight makes my eyes sting, but I am sure this is lovely weather for most other people," added after a pause. 

She nodded, then tried again. 

"Have you ever been to the Opera?"

He took so long to reply that she almost thought he wouldn't. 

"I have."

Something about the way he said it made it seem uninviting for follow up questions. She thought perhaps he would add something else to those two words, but apparently that was all he wanted to say on the topic. 

She was thankful that they were almost to their destination. They went the rest of the way without speaking. 

Erik paused outside of Christine's dressing room, glancing inside to make sure there was no one there waiting to ambush her. 

"There is no other way in or out, yes?" he asked. 

" _Well_..." she wrung her hands. "I don't know for certain, but - I think there's a sort of exit behind the mirror."

She gestured to the full length mirror on the wall. 

"What do you mean?"

"Come here, I'll show you."

She went up the very edge of it, Erik hesitating a moment longer before finally stepping over the threshold. It felt too close, to personal, to be there in that small room with her - a room that should have been hers alone, unsullied by his presence. 

"There's a latch right here, and when you press it-"

She depressed the latch and the glass of the mirror noiselessly rolled back to reveal a hidden chamber that appeared to lead into a dark tunnel.


	7. Chapter 7

Erik's face fell. He cautiously stepped into the chamber, trying to peer into the darkness and ascertain just how back this tunnel went. He couldn't see the end of it. Who knows how far it went, or what it led to - or who was hiding inside. He stepped back into the dressing room, his posture defeated. 

"I am so sorry, Mademoiselle Daae, but I feel I would be remiss to allow you be in this room alone. This tunnel isn't safe, and by the time you screamed to alert me to the presence of an intruder, it would be too late," he told her gravely. 

Christine's expression wavered, a small smile marked with confusion as she tried to tell if he was joking with her - was this the sense of humor that Madame Giry had told her about? 

"Surely you're joking...?"

He looked at her regretfully, and her smile disappeared completely. 

"You don't truly think someone is going to come through my dressing room mirror and abduct me, do you? That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!"

"I assure you that being here in this room is far from my first choice. If you truly feel there's no danger behind there, I will - against my better judgment - step outside as you wish. The choice is yours."

Christine stared down the tunnel. It _was_ terribly dark... Her lip trembled. She slid the glass back to its original place. 

"Very well then, I suppose," she told him with a confidence that belied her conflicted mind. 

Erik turned to face the wall, his eyes trained directly in front of him. 

"I _am_ sorry, you know," he muttered. 

Christine had never been more grateful for the folding partition in this room. She gathered the pieces of her costume and stood behind the partition to dress. Halfway through dressing curiosity got the better of her and she dared to peek around the corner - just a bit, just her face, though it wouldn't have mattered because she already had her dress completely on by then. Erik hadn't budged an inch, still staring at the faded floral wallpaper. Even if he had tried to glance behind him, she knew he wouldn't have been able see around the partition due to its height and width, but she was terribly curious anyway. She thought back to Meg's words about how he didn't like women in _that_ way, and then wondered why on earth _Meg_ of all people would know something like that about him. 

She finished dressing quickly, stepping back out around the partition and settling herself in front of the vanity table. She began combing and pinning her hair up in a rolled style, glancing in the mirror over at Erik. 

She stopped fussing over her hair and turned to face him. He was still facing the wall. She cleared her throat. 

"You can turn around now."

He turned around, eyes now studying the carpet. She briefly wondered if perhaps he would have stood there facing away from her the entire time if she hadn't said anything. 

"You can sit on the divan, if you like," she waved a hand towards the small couch. "My makeup always takes a while to finish."

He sat down awkwardly, the divan a little too low to the ground to be entirely comfortable for someone with such long legs. 

He tried his very best not to stare at her as she primped and painted, but she was correct that it was taking a very long time and there was so very little else to look at in the room - one could only gaze at the vase of wilted roses on her table for so long before being tempted to watch her clever fingers twist and pin those flaxen tresses into woven curls and spirals. 

Erik pondered this strange twist of fate that now had him sitting in her dressing room as though he were one of the patrons who payed extra for the ability to take such liberties with the performers, when not even a week ago he couldn't find the courage to even knock on her door. 

Christine slid the tube of lipstick over her lips, turning them blood red in its wake. Her eyes flicked up to Erik's face in the mirror, that odd gaze of his intently following the motion of the lipstick, only for their eyes to meet when she paused. He quickly looked away, embarrassed, and she felt a blush creeping over her own cheeks as she smiled. 

Finally she stood in front of the mirror, makeup and hair complete. She lingered, even though she knew she had no real reason to. It was silly, _she_ was silly, but she was just slightly nervous about who would see them leaving her dressing room together. People _talked_ around here, and she preferred to not be the subject of that talk if she could help it. 

No one saw as they left her dressing room, but the pair did draw some glances as they approached backstage. Jospeh Buquet openly stared, looking Erik up and down nervously, eyes darting from his tall form to Christine and back again. Several stagehands whispered to each other, their eyes gone wide. Erik pointedly ignored all of this in a manner that Christine could only assume came from decades of practice, and she felt a pang of sympathy for him if this was how he was treated by most people for his entire life. 

She managed a warm smile at Erik when he finally looked at her, but his eyes continued to rove the stage, looking at her as though she were merely another prop or piece of scenery, his mouth impassive. She raised her eyebrows and felt a surprising pout settle over her which she couldn't quite explain - she had been smiling for _his_ benefit, not her own, so if he did not appreciate it that was his problem, not hers, yet all the same the emotion remained like a bothersome dark cloud on an otherwise sunny day. 

A few other performers openly stared and whispered, and Christine made a mental note to ask Meg what exactly was being said about her. Meg could always be counted on for three things - a heartfelt hug when days weren't going well, to have an extra snack in her dance bag, and her uncanny ability to keep on top of every strand of gossip related to anyone who worked at the Opera House. Meg would _know_. 

The director, however, had been informed in advance about the situation with Christine, and merely gave a small nod to Erik when he noticed him. 

As her turn on the stage drew nearer, she pushed all thoughts of gossip and potential kidnappers from her mind, trying to focus solely on what she would be singing. She rocked from her heels to her toes, clenching and unclenching her hands. Her thoughts turned only to the words of the aria she was about perform, no longer noticing anyone else, not even the odd presence of Erik right behind her that she still wasn't used to yet. 

Erik himself was not unaffected by the buzz backstage. He was trying to keep his own thoughts at bay, thoughts of what it would be like to be up here every week, to feel the glare of those lights and to hear his voice echo off the walls and soar up to the vaulted ceiling night after night. Would it feel different than all those nights when people would gather around to gawk at his death's face as a child? It would have to. They would be drawn here by only his voice, by something pure, not by something nightmarish and grotesque. But he would never get a chance to know what that felt like. This was the closest he'd ever come to actually being on stage. 

He glanced down at Christine. The poor girl looked terribly nervous. She was practically hyperventilating, her body shaking. He frowned. This was only a dress rehearsal - how much more anxious did she get during an actual show? He hadn't noticed any hint of nerves when she had played Marguerite. Perhaps the threats looming over her were getting to her. He longed to be able to reach a hand out on place it on her shoulder, to tell her it would be okay, to remind her to breathe deeply and slowly, but it felt too familiar of a gesture. He wasn't here to help her with her singing career, he wasn't even here for moral support - he was solely here to make sure no one grabbed her and ran off with her, and he would do well to not forget his place. 

It was her cue to enter the stage, and as she stepped out from the wings a stillness settled over her. Erik stepped closer but stayed out of view of where the audience would be. Her music began, and after two measures of intro she began her aria. 

It was as though she were suddenly a different person entirely. She didn't shake or falter, she didn't shift on her feet or tense her hands. 

Erik sucked in a breath. How much stronger her voice was when he was this close. This was nothing like when he was sitting in the back of theater watching Faust and trying to hide. It was like being transported to another world. That golden voice curled around him and seeped into his very soul, teasing his mind with images. Never had he wished so fervently to be able to be on stage himself, for the sole reason of being blessed with the opportunity to sing in duet with her. She could be Juliet, and he would be Romeo, or perhaps he will be Tristan and she will be Isolde, two lovers united through the passion of their music - or they could even be someone new, he could write entire operas to showcase their voices together, operas that would bring all of Paris to its knees at the sight of such beauty and heavenly light- 

In those few moments it didn't even matter that such a thing could never be. He knew that the aria was about to end and take with it those shining fantasies, and they would be once again simply Christine and Erik, a young woman who was uncomfortable around the masked guard that fate decreed she be saddled with. 

He closed his eyes and held on to those last notes, those last pieces of artificial hope before he let them slip away and fade with the echo of her voice. 

She lingered a moment on stage before gracefully walking back to the wings. Once out of sight behind the curtains, she shook her arms out wildly and jumped up and down a few times as though to work out the rest of the adrenaline in her system, and then practically ran down the steps and towards the empty auditorium. She glanced back at Erik, who was quite confused but managed to keep only a few feet between them. 

"I want to see the others sing!" she said, smiling. 

He followed her to the front row and took a seat next to her. He belatedly realized he probably should have left an empty seat between them - it felt strange to sit so close with their elbows practically touching when the entire theater was nearly empty, but it would be even stranger to get up and put space between them once they were already seated. He had been told by several people in the past that he had a tendency to make those shorter than him - which was very nearly everyone - feel crowded because he'd stand too close, unable to judge the distance from the perspective of the shorter person. It was nothing he did on purpose - _generally_ not, anyway - so he tried to be aware of how much space he might need to leave around him. He assumed he had gotten better at it over the years, but Christine was so terribly short and he hated the thought of making her uncomfortable just by being next to her. 

If she was uncomfortable, she gave no outward sign. She gazed up at the stage, her face full of wonder as she listened to the other performers, a big smile of joy on her face when she enthusiastically clapped for each one when they were done. 

"I don't get to see them perform on the day of the shows, so dress rehearsals are the only times I can watch them," she whispered to him as one of the performers left the stage. 

Erik nodded. He very nearly told her that her own performance was beautiful, that she was very talented, or any number of other compliments, but he hesitated just a moment too long and by then the next singer was beginning and her attention was solely on the stage. 

This singer was talented as well, able to deviate from the prescribed notes and improvise and embellish, but there was something about her that Erik found off putting that he couldn't quite name. It wasn't until he song was finished that he realized what it was. Christine clapped as she had for each singer, but where the others had given a little bow or wave in acknowledgment, this woman paused and looked directly at Christine with an expression that could only be described as a sneer. The woman scoffed and shook her head and stalked off stage. 

"Who was that?" Erik asked in a hushed tone. 

"La Carlotta," she replied softly. 

"She doesn't like you," he was slouched down in his chair so their faces were level with each other, and he glanced over at her. 

Christine gave a small smile. 

"I know."

"So why did you clap for her?"

"Just because she doesn't like me, that doesn't mean I have to dislike her," she shrugged. 

Erik was silent at this, and the arrival of the next singer saved him having to reply. 

La Carlotta was arrogant and haughty where Christine was sweet and kind, and he was almost certain that this came across in their singing as well. He glanced at her again, studying her features. She was entirely engrossed in the next performance, not noticing that he was watching her instead of the stage. He wondered how many of the other performers she was actually friends with, and how many she was simply supporting because she thought it was a nice thing to do. She certainly hadn't been any less enthusiastic for La Carlotta, so he had no way of knowing which might be which. 

Erik had always been suspicious of nice people. They were usually the ones plotting something, the ones who had reason to hide their true feelings until they got what they wanted, the ones who were too dishonest to display their distaste for others up front. 

But Christine's niceness seemed different than that. It didn't seem to be masking anything underneath. It just... was. He wondered what it might be like to get to know someone like that, then he reminded himself that the ultimate goal was to spend as little time around her as possible - to find the missing Vicomte and find whoever was responsible for threatening her so that she didn't need someone watching her constantly. He would have to continue to wonder, he told himself wryly. 

After the rehearsal was over they made their way back to the dressing rooms. They passed La Carlotta in the hallway where she was standing against the wall with several other people around her. She focused her glare on Christine, who in turn gave her a small smile. Carlotta crossed her arms and frowned, turning her attention then to Erik. 

Perhaps niceness was simply Christine's nature. It certainly was not, however, Erik's nature, and he had no qualms about returning that icy stare. He thought he saw a flicker of fear go across her face for just one instant, and perhaps a hint of jealousy. She continued to stare as Christine entered her dressing room and held the door open for Erik. 

"Who were those people she was with?" he asked as he turned to the wall once more. 

"Her friends."

"Other singers?"

"Piangi is. There's also her personal assistant, and the other two are from who knows where else."

"Does she always travel with such an entourage?"

"Usually, yes."

"Does she have any reason to dislike the Vicomte? Or the Comte?"

Christine paused behind the partition. 

"I- don't think so. Oh, you don't think she had something to do with all this, do you?"

"I think she very clearly doesn't like you."

Christine finished changing and came around to the vanity table, pulling the pins out of her hair and taking off her jewelry. 

"I don't think it was her," she fretted. 

"You don't think so, or you don't want to think so?"

Christine looked up at him, worry written across her features. 

"She's just upset because I did so well when I took over her role while she was sick," she shook her head. 

"And you feel such revenge is beneath her?"

"Well- she might have _written_ such a letter, but I don't think- I'd like to think that she didn't actually have Raoul kidnapped... Do you really think it was her?"

Christine sounded scared and sad, and Erik briefly regretted being so adamant about it. 

"I am not certain, but I would be careful around her," he said gently. "The first letter didn't mention you at all, which makes me think it wasn't related to her bruised ego, but then again, what better way to get back at you than by spiriting away your boy?"

"Oh, Erik..."

Christine had to admit, it did make sense in a way. 

"It would also explain why you were targeted in the second letter- you will forgive my saying so, but you have been merely an understudy," he hesitated. "But perhaps you were targeted _because_ of that reason - if Carlotta always travels with an entourage as you say, then it would stand to reason that kidnapping _her_ would become exponentially more difficult."

Christine felt like her head was spinning at it all. She rubbed her hand over her eyes. 

"I just want to go home, Erik," she sighed. 

He nodded. 

"Of course."

He would have to run his ideas by Antoinette and see what she thought of them. He decided not to say anything more of it to Christine, who he had already managed to overwhelm. He certainly couldn't ask her about the Comte now, he had already pushed too far for one night. 

They walked back in the darkness in mostly silence. His mind was busy mulling over possibilities of who was responsible for what, and she was focused on what she needed to do to prepare for the show that was happening the next night. 

He broke her from her thoughts. 

"Do you always walk home alone?"

"Excuse me?"

His face flushed. 

"I mean, do you always walk to and from work? At the same times each day, even in the dark?"

She thought about it. 

"I suppose so."

"You shouldn't, especially not now."

She nodded, too tired to do much else. 

As they finally approached Giry's house, he noticed that Antoinette was inside, standing by the little window, anticipating Christine's return. She opened the door before they even had to knock, and Christine entered without a word to either of them, heading straight for the stairs and up to the room she shared with Meg. 

Erik watched her go and felt strangely awkward about the parting. She hadn't even said goodbye. He thought about that for a moment, and then he felt awkward for feeling awkward - what did it matter that she didn't say goodbye? They weren't friends. She was merely a client, and there was no need for anything beyond the bare minimum of what was required to do the job expected of him. 

"Would you like to stay for dinner, Erik? We ate earlier, but we made enough for both of you for when you got back," Antoinette offered. 

He hated to admit it, but he was rather hungry. And Antoinette was a very good cook. But the thought of having to sit at the same Christine while they ate... He couldn't do it. 

"Thank you, Antoinette, but no. I'd rather just go back home, I think."

She nodded and studied his face. He seemed tired. Perhaps rest would do him good. 

"You know you can stay here tonight if you prefer, if the walk back is too much for you."

"That- that will not be necessary."

He walked back to the office, hands deep in his pockets, the collar of his coat popped, hat tipped low. He was the only person walking down the street, surrounded by a crushing quiet punctuated only by his footsteps, and in that moment it didn't feel like a stretch to imagine that he was also the only person in the entire world. Darkness pressed in around the edges of the bright spots on the sidewalk left by the overeager street lamps, creating a mottled look across the ground - darkness, light, darkness, light. 

He scolded himself for still lingering on the lack of any kind of parting words to Christine - it was only natural, he told himself, considering he hadn't said hello to her that morning. He had no one but himself to blame because _he_ was the one who had set the tone for their acquaintanceship. Perhaps if he hadn't flooded her with details of the process of trying to deduce who was threatening her she wouldn't have been so distracted and _then_ maybe she would have had the sense of mind to be polite to him. 

He sighed. Perhaps if he hadn't snuck up behind her on that first day she had visited the office, she wouldn't be afraid of him and _then_ she would actually _want_ to be polite to him. No, that wasn't exactly right - perhaps if he didn't have the face of a monster and didn't require an ominous mask - perhaps if he wasn't so freakishly tall - perhaps-

He only had a few items sitting forlornly in the icebox in his bedroom, and staring at the leftover half of a sandwich and a banana which had certainly seen better days made him wish that he had stayed for dinner with Christine and the Girys after all. He grabbed the sandwich and wandered downstairs as he ate it, ending up in the basement as he took the last few bites. 

He sat at the bench in front of the organ with a heavy sigh. His fingers were itching to compose again, but it wasn't like the flowing, airy compositions he had working on after seeing Christine in Faust. Instead, the music which poured from him now seemed only to compliment the stifling darkness outside, the oppressive summer heat which clung tenaciously even in the middle of the night as though you'd never be rid of it. Dirges leapt forth, nearly violent in their sadness. He couldn't say how long he played for that night, didn't even look at the clock when finally he felt there was nothing left in him, no more will to force his fingers into the keys. He simply stopped playing as suddenly as he had started, went upstairs, and fell into bed. 

Christine couldn't fall asleep that night no matter how hard she tried. It had unnerved her that the culprit could be someone she had spent so many years around, that such viciousness and hate could be festering in someone she actually knew. She squirmed under her blanket, trying to find a position conducive to sleep. She tried to focus on the rhythmic huff of Meg breathing though her mouth as she slept, but it didn't help. 

She rolled into her stomach, her arms under her pillow. Rehearsals had gone well. She had done her best, and everyone else had sounded lovely as well. She had been genuine when she had applauded them all. No one had clapped for her, though. She told herself that it was because she was earlier on in the show, that everyone was still too focused on their performances to give much heed to hers. Still - it would be nice, just occasionally, to hear _some_ form of encouragement from her fellow performers. She knew she'd been away for years, but she had practically grown up around these people! It's not like they were strangers...

She curled into her side, legs twisting around each other. Erik hadn't even said anything afterwards. Did he not think she was very good? She rolled her eyes at her own silliness. It's not like she wanted his _approval_ or anything, but he was seemingly a singer himself. A kind word coming from him would have meant a lot - because he was a singer, of course, that's why it would mean a lot...

But still, not a single word from him about it. 

She sprawled on her back. No 'good job, Christine', or 'that was very lovely', or even 'your dress looks nice' - nothing. She scoffed. It's not like his opinion actually mattered... But _still_. It was nice to hear nice things. 

Guilt gnawed at her. Raoul was out there somewhere suffering who knows what, and here she was pouting over not receiving a compliment from a man who strongly disliked her. Her poor, dear Raoul - when would she see him again? A tear slid down her cheek as she thought of him. She missed him so. 

As the faintest sunlight began to filter through the window in the early hours of morning, her eyelids finally grew heavy and fluttered shut. It seemed only mere moments later that she was being unceremoniously smacked in the face with a pillow. 

"Wake up, lazy bones!" a triumphant and far too awake Meg called out as she stood over Christine, pillow in hand. "You have a show today!"

Christine looked up at her with bleary eyes, resting the back of her hand on her forehead and rubbing away the sting left by the pillow. 

"Oh, Meg," she sighed.


	8. Chapter 8

Erik opened his eyes in the morning and immediately panicked, thinking he'd gone blind. His hands fluttered up to his face only to find that he was not, in fact, blind - he had forgotten to take his mask off the previous night and it had slipped up across his eyes. He pulled it off and rubbed cold fingertips over the sore spots it had left in its wake before righting it over his face once more. It had been ages since he'd fallen asleep with his mask on, he realized. 

He looked in the icebox for breakfast and sighed. He took the banana downstairs and settled into a chair to wait for Antoinette, who would be dropping Christine off. 

It was only a few moments later that both came through the door. Antoinette set her purse down and began to go around the room, gathering what she'd need for her day of field work. She did a double take in Erik's direction, wrinkling her nose at the rather old banana he was in the process of peeling. 

"Erik, that's disgusting," she stated. 

"Nonsense, it's perfectly fine."

"Perfectly fi- how many days has it been since that banana was actually yellow, Erik?"

He shrugged and broke off a piece, putting it in his mouth. 

Antoinette huffed. 

"I suppose since you're eating old fruit it means you've finally run out of other food?"

"I have. I need to go grocery shopping today."

"Please promise me that you won't get more bananas. You always say you want to eat them, and then you let them molder away in the back of the icebox." 

"And I still eat them, do I not?" he innocently placed another piece of overripe banana in his mouth. 

She glared at him. 

"Only because you know it bothers me."

Her voice was annoyed, but he could see the hint of mirth in her eyes. He was struggling to keep the smirk from his own face, too. 

He glanced over at Christine, curious despite himself about her reaction to their banter. She was sitting on the couch, her gaze downcast as she played with the end of the long braid her hair was in. She either wasn't paying attention or didn't find it very amusing. 

"We'll have plenty of time to go to the store before the show tonight," he said to no one in particular. 

Antoinette finished filling her purse with her notebooks and various items and gave the room once last glance before turning towards the door. 

"I'll leave you both to it, then. Good luck on your show tonight, dear," she gave Christine's arm a squeeze before she left. 

The smile that briefly lit up Christine's face quickly faded when the door closed. Erik sat silent a moment, wiping his fingers on a napkin and tossing the banana peel into the bin by the desk. 

"Are you ready to go to the store?" he asked. 

She nodded but kept her eyes downcast, not looking at him. He unconsciously raised a hand to his face, and then ran it over his wig, making sure both were in place. He stifled a sigh and went for the door, Christine rising and following right behind. 

Christine desperately tried to think of things she could say, ways to fill the empty void spanning between them, but each thing she could think of seemed to require extra thought to make certain it was the right thing to say and by the time she felt sure it would fine to say out loud, the moment had already passed. She settled for dumbly following him around the store, trying but not quite succeeding in finding a balance between curiously eyeing his purchases and not gawking at them. 

It was an odd mixture of very simple boxes and canned foods and what she assumed were ingredients for a very involved meal that she was too shy to ask about. 

He went to the produce section last, stopping in front of the display of oranges and reaching to the very back to pluck out two. Christine didn't give much thought to his reaching for ones in the back, she assumed that when one had arms that long it was only natural, after all. Perhaps she too would grab ones at the back if she were capable of reaching them. She didn't realize that the real reason was because he wanted ones that people hadn't put their grubby hands all over, and he was very glad that she made no comment on his choices - unlike the time he had gone shopping with Antoinette, and she had demanded to know what was wrong with the ones in the front, and then he had to explain that while he was aware that all of the fruit had been touched by whoever harvested it and also by the grocer who put them in the display, the ones that were touched and squeezed and heaven forbid _coughed on_ by all and sundry who were passing by were simply unacceptable to him, regardless of the fact that he didn't eat the peel anyway. Yes, he was quite glad to not have to repeat that explanation. 

She paused by the green apples, admiring them. 

"Is something wrong, Christine?" he hoped the stress wasn't causing her to crack - he'd never seen someone stare at an apple so wistfully. 

"Have you ever had these?" she surprised them both with her question. 

"Yes, I believe I have tried an apple before, maybe once or twice," he nodded solemnly. 

"No, I mean the green ones."

He shrugged. 

"Perhaps. An apple is an apple, it never made that much of an impression on me, I suppose."

"Oh, no, they aren't! Green ones are special! They taste so different than the red ones you find everywhere, and Raoul and I used to always take green apples with us when went on picnics..."

She trailed off, her smile beginning to fade a little. 

"They were my favorite," she sighed at last. 

"Were?" 

"I haven't had one in ages. I suppose I'd still like them even now, but- well, I guess I can't claim they're still my favorite if I haven't even bothered to try one in all this time?"

Erik didn't know how to answer that question that didn't entirely seem to be about the apple. Christine turned to look at the different fruits offered, lost in her own thoughts, and probably mourning the Vicomte, he thought. She still wasn't looking when he reached back and took two of the green apples and put them in a bag before placing them in his shopping basket. 

She did, however, notice the very last item he picked up before heading to the cashier to pay - a single banana. 

Christine silently scolded herself on the walk back from the store. Why did she have to babble on about the apple? Erik didn't care about her little childhood picnics and odd stories. Did she truly want so desperately to have a conversation with him that she'd bring up such nonsense? Apparently so, she groaned inwardly. 

When they reached the office he went upstairs without a word, putting his groceries away in the ice box - all expect for the single banana. He took that back downstairs with him. 

"You have a few hours before your performance, what would you like to do?"

Christine considered his words. 

"Could we go to the opera house early? If you don't mind, that is."

"Of course," he nodded. 

She gathered her things up once again, but stopped to watch as he opened the top drawer on Antoinette's desk and placed the banana in the back of the drawer before closing it again. She stared at him, confused. 

He straightened out his trench coat, keeping a completely straight face with his explanation. 

"That'll make a nice surprise for her in about a week, don't you think?"

Her lips quirked in a smile before she looked away. She would have to do her best not to laugh now every time she saw Antoinette open that drawer. 

They left for the Opera House, and once there Christine gave him an apologetic look. 

"I don't go to my dressing room until I'm almost ready to go on stage. There's an old storage room I usually practice in beforehand, you see."

She led him down twisting hallways until she stopped in front of gilded door. 

"It's practically abandoned, no one has used it in years," she turned the doorknob and ushered him inside. 

His footfalls made no sound as he crossed the carpeted floor and sat down on a rather dusty ottoman. He could definitely believe that Christine was the only one to enter this room in ages. There were large prop pieces leaning against the walls and several shelves worth of various odds and ends, broken clocks and tangled wigs and fake flowers. 

She set her purse and tote bag on the floor, color creeping into her cheeks that made her want to slap herself. No matter how much she tried to talk herself out of it, she couldn't help the little flutter her heart gave when she considered that during the nearly three hours she'd be warming up and practicing, it was at least somewhat _probable_ that Erik - who himself was a singer, she had not forgotten despite barely having heard him - would say _something_ about her singing. 

She cleared her throat and began her first warm up exercise. She let her eyes close, finding it was easier to focus on her voice that way - she was too nervous, too temped to glance over at Erik to see if she could determine any sort of reaction from him. 

She was halfway through the exercise when the surprised yelp of a man from behind her caused her eyes to fly open. Erik was there in front of her - quite close - she hadn't even heard him approach. His posture was stiff, yellow eyes glaring at something just behind her, and she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a coiled red rope clutched in his left hand before she whirled around to see where the yelp had come from. 

Jospeh Buquet stood there, shamefaced and sullen.


	9. Chapter 9

"What are you doing here, Monsieur?" Erik's voice was low and threatening, to the point that Christine almost wanted to take a step away from him. 

"I'm doing my job, what are _you_ doing here?" Jospeh retorted, giving him a glare of his own. 

"I'm doing my job as well," Erik took another step closer to Christine, who tried not to cower from him. 

"Carry on, then," Jospeh grumbled as he grabbed a few items from the shelves, seemingly at random, and hurried out the door. 

Christine flinched at the sound of the door slamming shut. As soon as Erik was convinced the man wasn't coming back, he turned from her to go sit on the ottoman, the fierce look gone from his eyes, returned once again to cold aloofness. 

"Who was that?" the question was blunter than he intended. 

"Jospeh Buquet. He's a stage hand - a scene mover, mostly."

She managed to mostly hide the quiver in her voice. The incident had startled her more than she cared to admit. She placed a hand her chest, willing her breathing to steady and her heart to stop pounding. Erik made an imposing figure at the best of times, but this was first time she realized just how _terrifying_ he could be. She didn't envy anyone on the receiving end of those stares. And was that a _noose_ he had up his sleeve? She shuddered, mentally making a note to not leave her eyes closed around him for very long. Finding Buquet lurking in the room had been even more startling - how many years had she spent coming in this room and never seeing another soul in it and now? 

Erik nodded at her words, then waved a hand in her direction. 

"Continue with your warmups, please," he told her absentmindedly. 

She raised an eyebrow at being told what to do, but he didn't notice. 

He replayed the scene in mind again - the hint of movement behind one of the scenery props just behind Christine, the small scuffle of noise that made him jump to his feet, how close that Jospeh Buquet fellow came to becoming aquatinted with the Punjab Lasso... Buquet. That was the one Nadir was always talking about, always getting in trouble for minor offenses. He could sworn the man was _hiding_ behind one of the props, but perhaps he was merely hiding to take a swig of liquor. He certainly had been surprised to see Erik, though. 

Erik found his thoughts torn away from Buquet and kidnapping and lassos. How on earth did Christine manage to make simple warm up exercises sound so exquisite? There was simply no room for any other thought than of her when she was singing. 

When she jumped into her run-through of the aria she'd be singing later, it was a near tangible ache in his soul. His eyes roved the room, unwilling to let them land on her lest he be unable to look away again. There was a dusty old piano in the corner, probably horribly out of tune, but oh how he longed to spring up and begin playing it for her, to offer her accompaniment. Did she have any idea how close to perfection her voice was? He slouched against the wall behind the ottoman, aiming for nonchalance, as though he wasn't listening to the voice of an absolute angel. 

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, taking in how he sprawled against the wall, perpetually too tall for any form of chair he sat on. She pushed her voice, stretching out a note. He closed his eyes. _Was he falling asleep_? Was she that boring? She replayed his previous words in her mind - _I'm doing my job_. 

She glanced away. _His job_. Yes, of course. It would foolish to think that there could ever be anything about the two of them that was more than a job to him - and even more foolish of her to have _wanted_ anything else. Her friend's mother's friend would not automatically become _her_ friend as well - even if they were apparently both singers. 

She didn't have very many friends who were singers... Or _any_ friends that were singers. She had many acquaintances who sang, and a number of good acquaintances who sang, but none she would have considered as real friends - and none who would have considered her a friend, either. The people she was closest to were all in different fields - ballet or acting or even a baker like Elizabeth back in England. But no singers. She didn't know what, if anything, she had done to make it that way. She was kind as often as she could be, and she was certainly around them often enough. And now, it seemed, there was one more singer who didn't care about her past the confines of his job. 

Her stomach twisted and her mind taunted her. What if he actually hated her? What if this aloofness he seemed to carry was simply professionalism masking a serious distaste for her? She stopped singing to take a drink of water. It might not be the case, but it might make it easier to accept their strange situation. He simply didn't like her. If he was at all interested in anything about her, he would have asked, would have brought it up by now. He didn't seem the type to suffer from shyness, so that couldn't be it. 

She was a right little fool, she scoffed at herself. Singing her soul out with the hope to coax a compliment from a man two decades her senior who probably couldn't stand to be around her in the first place. 

She turned around once again, rolling her head to stretch out the tension in her neck. If he could see fit to ignore her, she would do the same for him. She paced a little as she mentally rehearsed what she would do onstage. 

He opened his eyes, daring a look in her direction. He couldn't help how his mind wandered to what she would sound like singing the compositions he had written for her. He let himself imagine, briefly, some fantasy world where he had written an opera and she was his prima donna, preparing to go out on the stage and share his music with the Opera House, with everyone and anyone who would listen, until there was not a single corner of the earth that had not heard the music of the mysterious masked maestro sung by the beautiful woman with the celestial voice. 

A small frown marred her perfect face, and he wondered if it was nerves getting to her. That little incident with Buquet had probably thrown her off of her pre-show ritual. She sang through the aria one last time before turning to face the door, calling backwards to him that she was ready to go to her dressing room. 

Once there, he turned to face the wall after checking behind the mirror. She gathered up her peacock blue gown and took it behind the partition. There was a long moment of panic as she struggled to fix the zipper on the back of the gown, which had somehow gotten stuck and refused to go either up or down. Her mind was filled with horrible visions of having to explain what was wrong to Erik, of him having to come around the partition and those gloved fingers having to work out the little folds of fabric that were caught, fabric that was _far too close_ to the small of her back, and if he didn't hate her already he certainly would after all that. It took much twisting of her arms and pulling on the zipper until she feared it would rip, but finally - and painfully - she managed to fix it herself. Her sigh of relief was quite audible. She was then able to sit and do her hair and makeup. She kept her gaze firmly on her own self in the mirror - if he was stealing looks at her, she didn't want to know. 

Backstage the atmosphere was different than it was during dress rehearsal. Everyone seemed more rushed, more nervous. Christine was lost in her trance of anxious ticks, rocking back and forth on her feet, squeezing her hands, her eyes gone glassy and wide. 

Erik felt terribly in the way, a feeling only heightened by the glares and glances from the other performers. Each look only served to remind him that he didn't belong here - that he never would belong to this world of performers. He tried to press as closely to the wall as he could, standing directly behind Christine so that she wouldn't see any of the rude looks he decided to return. It wouldn't do to distract or upset her, especially not before she was due on stage - but he held no qualms about that for any of the other performers. 

One of the performers preparing to get on the stage walked a little too quickly past Christine, stepping on her foot as he did so. She gasped, and pulled back. Had Erik not been quick about stepping to side, she would have backed up directly into him. He gave a vicious glare to the oaf who dared to trod on this angel as though she were a mere discarded stage prop, although the man didn't see it as he didn't turn around. A series of snickers coming from Carlotta's entourage informed him that it was no accident, exactly as he had suspected - after all, Christine was standing so close to the wall, trying so hard to not be in the way. The man had gone out of his way to step on her. 

Erik huffed. How dare anyone treat her like that? He would have words with little Vicomte about how Christine was being treated here, as he assumed Christine was too sweet to bring it up to him herself - if they ever actually found the Vicomte, that was. 

Christine was biting her lip, favoring her good foot now and wringing her hands. Erik had to stop himself from placing a hand on her shoulder. 

"Christine," he said carefully. "Are you alright?"

Christine was so tiny, he didn't think it would take very much to break one of her delicate bones, especially one in her foot. If that brute had hurt her, Erik had more than half a mind to greet him with a fist in his face as he came off of the stage. 

She looked back at him as if noticing he was there for the first time. She nodded, but he could see unshed tears in her eyes. 

"I'm fine."

She was announced on stage and winced as she tried to walk without a limp into the spotlight. Once there she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The music started. 

She began her aria. All traces of any pain, any lingering thoughts over what had just happened were erased from her countenance and posture. If perhaps she leaned a little more to one side, that was all that was noticeable. Her voice rang out as clear and solid as ever, her eyes sparkled in the overpowering brightness of the spotlights. If he hadn't seen it happen with his own eyes, he'd never have known that she had been rattled just moments ago. 

He felt an odd sense of pride for her. She was an utter professional. He knew that if it had him in her place, he would have missed his cue because he would still be pummeling the man into the ground - unless, of course, someone managed to pry him off and escort him from the premises. But there was Christine, singing as well as ever, as though nothing at all had happened. How strong she was, how brave. 

She paused for a moment at the end, absorbing the applause as she bowed before slowly turning and walking gracefully off the stage. By the time she reached Erik, he realized she was walking slowly because her foot still hurt. They went back to her dressing room without a word. 

She closed the door behind them and rested her head against it for a moment. She begged herself not to cry, not in front of Erik - there'd be plenty of time for crying when she was in bed that night. She sniffed deeply and pulled away from the door, sitting at her vanity instead. She pulled up the voluminous skirts and kicked off her satin shoe, rubbing her poor foot. 

"Are you sure you're alright? Who was that?" he made certain to keep his voice gentle this time. 

She shook her head. 

"Just one of Carlotta's friends," she sighed as she put on her shoes from earlier. 

She limped slightly as she walked behind the partition and he looked away. She let her blue dress fall on the floor, not even caring in that moment how much money the Opera House - how much Raoul - had spent on it. She changed into her regular dress and then snatched up the gown, throwing it over the back of a chair. She carelessly ripped the pins from her hair, not even bothering to wipe away the thick makeup. 

"Are you ready?" she asked him wearily. 

"Of course."

They stepped outside into the crisp evening air, a thin crescent moon in the sky offering precious little light to see by. 

"Christine... Do you always take the same path home?"

"Yes."

He hesitated. 

"I don't think we should, tonight. We should go a different way - just in case."

"Can't we start that tomorrow? This is the shortest way and- and I'm so tired," she looked pleadingly at him. 

He gave in. Just this one more time surely wouldn't hurt anything. 

They trudged along in the near darkness. 

They were halfway to their destination when Erik heard the hum of a motor engine.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to write fight scenes I'm sorry

It was still an odd thing to see a motor car, an invention that had been around for a little while but still wasn't a terribly popular mode of transportation. Erik couldn't see where this one was exactly, but the hum of the machine's engine was an unforgettable sound and he recognized what it was immediately. 

Uneasy with the thought that someone might drive up and grab her from the street, he moved to walk on her side between her and the street. The hum continued somewhere in the distance. 

Suddenly it revved to life behind them, tires squealing and swiftly approaching lights blinding them. Erik spun around, and the instant he did, Christine screamed. 

He made to turn back to her to make certain she was okay, but as he did he was suddenly shoved into the wall. Too close for the lasso, Erik swung a punch which was narrowly avoided by his attacker. 

From the corner of his eye he could see the form of a man struggling with Christine. Panic like he'd never thought he'd know again bloomed in his chest and raced down his limbs. He pressed forward as thought trying to push off the wall, the man holding him there tried to muscle him back. Erik suddenly grabbed at the man's shirt and pulled him towards the wall, using the man's own momentum against him to cause his face to collide with the bricks. His grip on Erik broken as he staggered backwards, Erik sprung forward to assist Christine. 

She had barely had time for her mind to register the loud noise behind them and Erik's quick movement when suddenly she realized that someone had been hiding in the darkness of the alley they had paused so briefly by. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her backwards while a hand tried to snake over her mouth. She managed half a scream before the fingers were attempting to muffle it, a task they failed at due to her instinct to bite them. 

Over the pounding in her ears she could vaguely hear the sounds of Erik scuffling with his own attacker. If they managed to incapacitate Erik, or even just delay him enough, she knew it would all be over. It was a thought that terrified her, but she strove to let it fuel her her own fight instead of weaken her. 

The man drew his hand back with an angry, surprised hiss. She took the opportunity to jam her elbow backwards, just under his ribcage. The man doubled over but still held tight to her. 

Erik couldn't risk using the lasso or the knife he had hidden in another pocket - any minor slip up and he might injure Christine. He chose instead for a swift kick to the side of the man's knee, finally causing him to release his hold on her. 

Once free, Christine turned quickly, swinging her purse around to strike the man squarely in the face. Erik was surprised and paused for the briefest of moments. He had expected her to run, not to keep fighting. His lasso hung limply in his hand, having missed his opportunity to use it on the man in the wake of the shocking amount of fight Christine had in her. 

She had wound up her arm for another smack to his face with her deceptively heavy little purse, but the blow didn't have time to land as man had crawled as fast he could towards the car that was waiting in the street. Inside the car sat the man who had attacked Erik and one other man besides the driver. They both reached down and helped to haul him into the car before it sped off into the night. 

Christine let her purse drop from her hands. It was over. It was over, and she had survived. 

Erik spared a only quick glance at the retreating machine before swiftly dropping to one knee in front of Christine. His hands fluttered over her, unsure of if she had injuries anywhere, his eyes desperately examining her in the light of the street lamp. 

"Christine, Christine, are you hurt? Did he hurt you?" he choked out, finally letting one hand gently and cautiously cup her cheek. 

Two thoughts dominated the mind of Christine Daae in that moment. 

The first was surprise that his gloved hand was cool to the touch. She would have expected some amount of warmth to radiate through the material, but there was none. 

The second, as he let his thumb caress her delicate cheekbone, that golden gaze staring into her eyes so full of concern, was that this was not the touch of a man who hated her. 

Since he had started working with Antoinette, Erik had been the security guard of dozens of people - people of all ages, both women and men. There were assassination and kidnapping attempts on many of those people. None of them, not a single one, had scared him as much as he had been scared tonight. He hadn't felt that level of fear since he was a very young man attempting to flee for his life from the Shah of Persia. But the thought of losing Christine, of any harm coming to her - it was the very same fear he felt once more. 

The rush of adrenaline was quickly fading, taking with it the strength she had found to fight back and leaving her with only the crushing realization of how close she had been to being kidnapped or worse. 

It was that gentle touch of Erik's that undid her. She threw her arms around his neck, leaning against him for support because her legs simply couldn't hold her up anymore. The day had been too much - too many scares, too much excitement and emotions in the worst of ways. Buquet in her storage room, Carlotta's friend stepping on her foot, near disaster in the streets - she just couldn't anymore. 

Erik froze as she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder, so unused to anyone touching him. He quickly recovered and placed one hand between her shoulder blades, pressing her lightly into him, letting the hand that had been on her face now cradle the back of her head. He could feel how heavily she was relying on him for support. He let them both stay there like that for a little while, his half kneeling position letting them finally be on nearly equal level, before he swallowed against the lump in his throat and broke the silence of the nighttime air. 

"We can't stay here," he whispered in her ear. "It isn't safe. Can you walk at all?"

She shook her head. She didn't trust her legs to be able to carry her. 

Erik made a quick calculation in his mind. Antoinette's house was still quite a distance away, but their office was just down the street. 

"Christine," he said softly. "If you can't walk, I'm going to have to carry you - is that all right?"

"Yes," her voice against his shoulder was muffled. 

He nodded. 

"Okay. I'm- I have to put my arm under your knees," he explained. 

He paused for only a moment to pick her purse up off the ground, draping its strap over his own shoulder before looping his arm underneath of her legs and lifting her off the ground. 

She stifled a squeak of surprise - she hadn't been expecting him to be able to lift her quite so easily or quickly. She was short, yes, but she certainly wasn't as thin as she had been when she was a dancer - and even then she hadn't been as thin as some of the other girls. But Erik seemed to have to no problem at all lifting her up and rising to his feet with her in his arms, setting a quick pace down the street. 

"I'm taking you to the office, it's much closer and we'll be safe there," he said. "We can't risk the walk to Antoinette's with the possibility of those men still out there and you like this."

She made a noise of agreement. 

She was surprised to find that the rest of him was only marginally warmer than his hands were. This man was full of surprises, it seemed. She took a deep breath. Now that she was so close to him, she could tell that he smelled of frankincense and spice. It was a scent that would always remind her of incense in churches - especially of funerals in churches, she had been to so many, all heavily laden with that scent in the air. She shivered. 

When the office building was in sight, she realized her legs were finally regaining their normal feel. She thought she could probably make it the rest of the way on her own, but they _were_ almost there, and he really didn't seem to mind carrying her, so she held her tongue and let him continue. Besides, her foot still felt bruised from earlier, she justified it to herself. 

He set her down briefly in front of the door that led to the little hallway that ended with their office door, fishing for a key ring in his coat pocket. He retrieved it, unlocked the door, then picked her up once again to carry her down the hallway, briefly freeing a hand to quickly secure the lock again. She couldn't stop the little noise that left her when he picked her up that time - she hadn't been expecting him to do so. 

When he set her down on her feet in front of the office door, unlocking it, she hesitated. She knew what was likely coming now - and she was perfectly capable of walking on her own, she had been for a little while now. If she simply pulled away from she could walk into the office before he stooped to hoist her up again. But if she pulled away, would he think it was because she was afraid of him, or that she didn't like him? She didn't want to give the impression that she couldn't wait to be away from his touch. So she stood where she was, hands lightly on his shoulders, and sure enough as soon as the door was unlocked and the knob twisted, he scooped her up again and carried her over the threshold - almost like a man carrying his bride to their new home, she thought with the slightest of blushes, _almost_ like. 

He kicked the door closed with his foot and laid her down on the couch, locking the door and then grabbing a pillow to place under her feet. He placed her purse on the floor next to the couch. 

"Put your feet up, Christine, it'll help you feel better," he fussed over her, making sure the pillow behind her back was at the right place and pulling a blanket over her lap. 

"I'm fine, Erik, really," she found all of his attention after so long of him barely looking at her was overwhelming and a little embarrassing. 

"How long has it been since you've eaten?" he asked, realizing he hadn't seen her eat all day. 

"I had breakfast earlier with Madame Giry. I often forget to eat on show days," she explained. 

He frowned. How had he not realized sooner? He was so used to going without food himself that he sometimes forgot it was thing that other people needed. He cursed himself - he wasn't taking very good care of his charge, letting her starve half to death. 

"Stay there," he said firmly before disappearing upstairs. 

When he returned he had a plate of various foods - cold cut meat and a sweet roll, a piece of cheese and a few iced cookies - and in the middle of plate were slices of green apple. She sucked in a breath when she noticed them, looking over at him. He was in the corner of the room, preparing a cup of tea for her, his back turned. 

Had he bought the apple because of what she said?

"I wasn't hinting that I wanted you to buy me an apple, you know. When I mentioned it in the store earlier."

He set the tea on the table next to her, suddenly too shy to meet her eye. He had intended to give her the apple after her performance, a small gift - something thoughtful, more personal than just flowers - but he never envisioned giving it to her like this, and dearly regretted that it had to be this way. 

"I know," he hovered near her, hesitating, as though he didn't know what to do with himself. "Are you certain that you're okay? How do you feel?"

"I'm fine," she pushed herself up off the couch. "What about you, though? I saw he had you up against that wall..."

She looked up at him, concerned. 

He rolled his eyes. 

"I've seen far worse, trust me. A minor bruise, at most. I'm going to call Antoinette, she must be worried sick about you when we didn't show up on time."

He sat at the desk and dialed her number. Christine took the opportunity to begin eating her food, saving the apple for last. He had been listening to her after all, she realized. Buying apples wasn't in his job description, and people don't buy apples for people they don't care about. 

"Antoinette? It's Erik, Christine is with me and she's fine," he paused. "On our way back from the Opera House some men accosted us, but I - we - dealt with them. They escaped in a car, however, so they're still out there. Is everything fine on your end?"

He was silent, listening to her reply. He looked surprised, turning to stare at Christine. 

"I don't know, we haven't discussed it," he placed the receiver against his shoulder, attempting to muffle it before he addressed Christine. "Christine, do you feel up to making the trip to Antoinette's tonight? After you finish eating and have rested, of course."

He left off the part where Antoinette had asked if Christine would prefer to spend the night at the office with Erik instead. 

"Yes, I can make it, I think," she frowned. "What about you, you'd have to walk all the way back here again by yourself."

He waved a dismissive hand. 

"Don't worry about that," he returned to the phone call. "She wants to go back to your house. Oh you heard her? What do you mean she's right?"

Silence. 

" _Antoinette_ ," he whined. "Are you serious? Are you-"

He held the ear piece away from him, and Christine could hear Antoinette's voice echoing loudly from it. 

"Alright! Alright! It's the most asinine thing I've ever heard, but I'll do it."

He slouched dramatically in the chair, rolling his eyes and sighing.

"Fine," he conceded. "I'll see you shortly."

He sprang up from the chair and headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. 

Christine finished her meal alone. The green apple was just as good as she remembered it, crisp and sour and just right. 

When Erik returned he was carrying a large briefcase, which he set by the door. 

"Let me know whenever you're ready to go to Antoinette's," he told her before settling in behind the desk. 

She nodded, taking her time to finish drinking the tea he had made for her. She appreciatively noticed the sugar bowl that he had also set on the table for her, another thing he seemingly remembered. When she finished both her food and her tea, and had sat and centered her breath for a little while, she stood up. 

"I'm ready," she said. 

He looked up from the papers on the desk, nodding. 

He grabbed the suitcase with a sigh and locked the doors behind them, stepping out into the night once more.


	11. Chapter 11

The walk to Antoinette's house was fraught with tension, but nothing further happened. They arrived on her doorstep and were quickly ushered inside. 

"Christine! I heard!" Meg threw her arms around her friend. "I was so scared!"

"Oh, I was too... But I'm okay," Christine hugged her tightly. 

"What about you, Erik?" Antoinette asked softly. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. It's nothing much. I've had worse tripping over my own feet."

Christine settled on the couch next to Meg, telling her all about it. 

Erik pulled Antoinette into the kitchen. 

"They sent three men and a driver after her, Antoinette," he told her darkly. "Why? No one needs that much muscle to steal a tiny woman like her. They clearly knew beforehand that I was with her. They planned this."

"I'm afraid you're right. They must have eyes on her," Antoinette fretted. "Have you noticed anyone that you keep seeing around her?"

Erik shook his head. 

"Everyone at the Opera House knows I'm with her. It's impossible to pinpoint just one person," he hesitated. "That Carlotta, she's terribly cruel to her, but I don't know what purpose it would serve to extort the Comte."

He snapped his fingers, suddenly remembering. 

"That drunk, that Buquet, he was in her storage room."

"Storage room?" Antoinette was confused. 

"She practices in a storage room. He was there today, but I don't know what purpose he would have, either."

Antoinette raised an eyebrow. 

"I don't think Buquet knows his own purpose half the time, Erik. I don't think he even remembers his own _name_ when he's drunk, and that's pretty often. I've heard about Carlotta from Meg, but I honestly can't think of what she'd want either. I know she dislikes Christine, but..."

"Regardless, she's being watched. They knew when she'd be leaving after her show, they knew the path she'd take, which means they know she's staying here, and they knew I'd be with her. Have you made any progress with the Comte?"

"No, none. He's being impossible."

"We should have Nadir arrest him for obstruction of justice," Erik growled. "If he keeps this up we may have to resort to _unorthodox_ methods. I _know_ he knows something."

Antoinette put her face in her hands and groaned. Heaven help them all when Erik had to bust out his _unorthodox methods_. She was almost afraid to even ask, not wanting to be liable as an accomplice should things go south. 

"It's been a long night, Erik. You should get some rest and we'll regroup in the morning," she walked towards the doorway, calling into the living room. "Christine- we saved you some dinner, come and eat it, dear."

Christine was closely followed by Meg as she entered the kitchen. 

"I ate just a little earlier, though," she told her. 

"That was hardly a meal, Christine," Erik reprimanded. "You need more food than that. Sit and eat."

He pointed at the chair next to the kitchen table, and Meg pulled it out for her. 

"You should eat something too, Erik - we saved some for you," Antoinette told him. 

"But I'm not hungry," his tone bordered on whiny. 

"Christine," Antoinette addressed her. "Did Erik eat anything today, besides that pitiful excuse for a breakfast?" 

Christine glanced back and forth between their faces, Antoinette's stern and commanding and Erik's (what she could see of it, anyway) looking every inch the child with his hand caught in the cookie jar. 

"He, ah, he did not - not that I saw, anyway," she said nervously. 

Erik took a step backwards, placing a hand over his chest in mock indignation. 

"Betrayed! And after all I did for you, Mademoiselle!" he gasped. 

"Erik sit down," Antoinette rolled her eyes. 

He obediently sat down across from Christine, who giggled at the somber look he gave her. 

Antoinette placed a plate in front of each of them, which they dutifully ate while Meg and her mother idly chatted in the background. 

"How was your show, Christine?" Meg asked. 

Christine thought about it before answering. 

"It went very well," she finally said. 

Erik paused. Was she not going to say anything about getting stepped on? 

"I was happy with how I sang, and the audience seemed to enjoy it," she continued. 

"What about you, Erik?" Meg asked. "What did you think of Christine's performance?"

Erik nearly dropped his fork. What did he think of her? What kind of question was that? Who asks that? 

A strange hush fell over the trio at the table. Antoinette was at the sink, blissfully oblivious to the sudden tension. 

Christine fiddled with her food, pushing it around the plate with the fork as she waited for Erik's answer. 

Meg leaned in eagerly. Too eagerly. 

He glanced from Meg, whose gaze was practically boring a hole in him, to Christine, who was pointedly not look in his direction. 

He looked down at his own plate. 

"She did very well," he blurted out and quickly shoveled a forkful of food into his mouth, hoping there would be no follow up questions. 

Meg grinned, and Christine looked up, surprised. Erik was already looking off in a different direction, desperately praying no one would notice the blush that was most definitely creeping down his neck and tinting his ears. 

Well. The compliment was prompted, and practically a repeat of what she herself had already said, but still- Christine smiled. 

Meg was rather pleased with herself. She knew that Christine wasn't treated the best at the Opera House, and compliments for her were few and far between - mostly out of jealousy, as far as Meg could tell. She had hoped that the man would have been able to muster up something better than 'she did very well', but it was a start, and Christine seemed happy. 

Meg and Christine talked through the rest of their meal, and Erik watched, lost in his thoughts. Antoinette retired to the living room. 

He had come so close to losing Christine. He didn't know how he would live with himself if something had happened to her on his watch. He had been so surprised afterwards, when she hadn't pulled back from his unthinking touch - and then when she had clung to him. At first he had thought little of it - she had been terribly frightened, and he was the most familiar thing in that moment, so it only made sense that she seek comfort from him. 

But he had expected that any moment she'd come to her senses, try to escape his grip or demand to be put down - except she never did. She let him carry her the entire way, even once they were safe at the office. And she had seemed just fine on the walk to Antoinette's, so the adrenaline induced jelly-legged feeling must not have lasted _that_ long. Surely she had recovered, or mostly recovered, on the way there, only she hadn't said anything. Perhaps that meant, after all, that she wasn't too afraid of him, didn't feel too uncomfortable near him. Perhaps she didn't think it was too horrible to be around him. He didn't dare hope for more than that, for anything else other than to not be repulsive to her. To befriend such an angel was simply too much to ask. 

He was still upset over her treatment backstage. What had Christine ever done to any of them, besides work hard on her voice and make use of her talent? It was unacceptable to him. How often he had wished, during bouts of mistreatment, for a normal face and a normal life so that people would have no reason to treat him harshly, to mock or abuse him - and yet here was Christine, pure, innocent, beautiful Christine, without any physical or spiritual flaw to be seen, and yet still she had to suffer at the hands of others! It simply wasn't fair, and he burned with anger over it. 

He watched as she carefully cut up the meat on her plate as she listened to one of Meg's stories. One would never guess just by looking at her the depth of fierceness in her, the amount of steely resolve. She looked like a fragile porcelain doll, but she had held her own against the man in the alley. The way she had turned off her own inner turmoil as she stepped on the stage, too, was impressive to say the least. What other secrets did she hold? 

She yawned. 

"Oh! You should go to bed soon, Christine, you must be exhausted," Meg said. 

Christine glanced at Erik. 

"I will. I just didn't want to go to bed while we still had a guest over," she said shyly. "It felt rude."

It took Erik a moment to realize she was referring to him. 

"Actually, Antoinette has insisted - rather loudly, as I'm sure you noticed during my phone call - that I stay here tonight. You may retire whenever you wish."

"Oh?"

"She seems to think it would be safer for us all - while I'm sure you all are safer with me here, it's laughable to think any danger would come to _me_ on my walk back to the office," he rolled his eyes and gave a long-suffering sigh. "But she insisted, so stay I will."

"I see."

Meg gathered up Christine's empty plate and silverware to take to the sink, and made to reach for Erik's as well. He pulled it back from her. 

"I can clean my own dish, Meg, I'm not a child."

"No, no - you heard Christine- you are a _guest_ here, I insist you let me do for you!"

"Come now, I'm perfectly capable," he insisted, firmly gripping the plate. 

She pulled at it, undaunted. 

"Let me take your plate, you great lout," she hissed at him. 

He released it. 

"You know, you inherited a great many traits from your mother. Did I ever tell you that, Marguerite?" he mused. 

"Erik!" she pretended to be scandalized. "What a terrible thing to say!"

"I know, that's why I said it. Perhaps you'll let me clear the table next time, hmm?" 

Meg shook her head. 

"You are an insufferable man," she sighed. "Come on, Christine, let's go to bed. It's late."

Meg flounced out of the room, and Christine rose to follow her. 

"Thank you, Erik," she said as she passed by him, uncertain of if she was thanking him for carrying her or for the compliment on her singing or for the apple, so she left it at that in the hopes that it would be for all three. 

"Of course," he gave a nod. 

"Christine," he asked suddenly as she was on the verge of leaving the room. 

"Yes?"

"Are green apples still your favorite?"

"Yes, they are," she replied. 

He glanced over his shoulder for one last look at her before she went upstairs, and she gifted him with a smile - the first real, actual smile he had seen from her that was directed at him, and his heart stuttered in his chest. 

"Goodnight, Erik. I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Christine."


	12. Chapter 12

How quickly things can change, Christine thought to herself as she closed her eyes that night. She prayed that her dreams wouldn't replay that awful scene she had lived through just hours ago. She chose to focus instead on Erik. 

Erik. She surely hadn't imagined it, had she? The gentleness of his touch, as though she were something precious and fragile. The concerned anguish glowing in those odd eyes as he searched her face for injury. She sighed. What she wouldn't give to go back to two and half months ago when so she could redo their unfortunate introduction. Perhaps she'd been wrong about him this entire time - perhaps _he_ thought she didn't like _him_. How awkward, she mused. 

She was glad that Madame Giry had made him stay the night. She knew he was a formidable opponent, and that he carried weapons (to think, there was a noose up the sleeve of the arm that held her so softly, and who knows what else in that long coat of his) but he was still only a man, and the scuffle that evening had proved he could be distracted and quite possibly overcome. Those men might still be out there, looking for revenge. She would have worried for him walking back so late all by himself, and Madame Giry probably had that same worry herself. She wondered if perhaps Erik had a shadow of that worry in his own mind, though he would never admit to it - but he _had_ agreed very quickly to stay, after all. Whether that was a testament to his own fear or to the insistence of Madame, she couldn't say for certain. 

She knew he was just downstairs on the couch, and she knew it was rather unseemly of her to even think about it, but she wondered if he was sleeping in the clothes he had been wearing earlier or if he had changed into pajamas, and wondered at what on earth could be in that giant suitcase of his, if it was stuffed full or merely the only one he owned. Was he wearing his mask? Did he always wear his mask to sleep, even when he was alone? Surely not. Was his face going to hurt in the morning after wearing it all night? She sighed. It probably _was_ unseemly to be wondering about his current state of dress, but she was trying to avoid nightmares, after all, and if she had to think unseemly things about him to keep those nightmares away - so be it. 

When sleep finally did visit her, her dreams were of those strong, kind arms around her, of being held against that broad expanse of his chest, of the scent of incense, and when she woke and remembered what her dreams had consisted of, she was suddenly quite glad that it was Madame Giry's day to watch her instead of Erik. 

Breakfast was an odd thing. Erik once again tried to insist he wasn't hungry, and Antoinette once again commanded him to eat anyway, and of course he complied. 

Since having to stay with the Girys, those breakfasts with them both every morning were the closest she'd felt to having family around her after Mama Valerius had died. She was surprised at how easily Erik seemed to fit into that family. Perhaps, she mused, it was a product of how many years he and Antoinette had known each other - seeing the two of them interact reminded her of herself and Raoul, a bittersweet memory that warmed her heart while making it twist. 

"Where are you off to today, Erik?" Antoinette asked as they headed to the door. 

"I'll be speaking to some friends and associates of the Vicomte. That reminds me, Christine - I need to speak to you tomorrow as well."

Christine nodded solemnly. 

"I'll be at the office all day if you need anything," Antoinette told him. "I'm terribly close to finding that little boy, I know it. The thread is there somewhere, buried in all my notes - I just have to find the end of it and _pull_. Just a few more days, I should think."

Erik parted ways with them halfway to the office. True to her word, Antoinette had an enormous stack of notes and files that she grabbed out of a box and placed on her desk with a resounding thud. 

"I'm sorry that today will be a little boring for you, my dear," she sighed as she got to work. 

"It's alright," Christine assured her. "Sometimes boring can be good..."

Her thoughts wandered too close to the previous day's events and she shuddered. 

She amused herself with a magazine for a little while until her interest waned. 

"Madame," she started, hesitatingly. "Would you mind terribly if I practiced my audition piece for the newest production?"

Antoinette gave it a thought. 

"Why don't you practice in the basement? It's almost soundproof down there after Erik redid the walls. I do love your singing, but - work demands my utmost attention, you know."

"Of course, Madame," Christine nodded. 

She went down into the basement, only a little nervous of the thought of the spiders which almost certainly would live down there. She was so focused on the thought of spiders that the sight of the organ up against the wall stopped her dead in her tracks. What on earth was an organ doing down here? She remembered what Madame Giry had said about Erik trying to soundproof the walls and assumed that it belonged him - she certainly couldn't picture Madame playing that thing. 

Her intent to practice her singing melted away as she found other things to catch her interest. The large bookshelf was a sight to behold. She tilted her head to read the titles, and was surprised to find that less than half of the titles were in French. She recognized a few of the other languages - English, Russian, Italian - and a number of strange languages with letters she couldn't understand at all. These had to be Erik's as well, as Antoinette only knew French. Could he really speak so many languages? 

She pulled an English title off the shelf, a language that she could read. She flipped through the pages, finding it to be a book of poetry. She was about to place it back on the shelf when something behind the books caught her eye. It looked like wrinkled papers. She reached back and pulled them out, careful to not mess them up any more than they already were. 

They were staves, with handwritten music on them. Her heart leapt. This music looked like nothing she'd ever heard before. On closer inspection, there were lyrics to go along with the music, but the words were written so small and sketchy that she could only make out half of the meaning - but she could read enough to know that these were love songs. They were beautiful - and they all seemed to be within her vocal range. She felt her face grow warm. But, surely he hadn't known, had he? It had to be a mere coincidence. Right in the corner of the compositions he had written the date he presumably wrote each one, and they were all from around a month ago. He had only heard her sing quite recently - hadn't he? Her mind wandered to that night at her dressing room door, when she thought she had caught a glimpse of his mask in the crowd. 

She bit her lip and carefully placed the staves back where she had found them, replacing the book in front of them. She could only imagine what it would be like to actually perform those pieces - the mere thought gave her chills. Suddenly she no longer had any interest in practicing her old audition pieces. 

With one last glance to make sure she hadn't left anything out of place, she made her way back upstairs and sat on the couch, her mind working overtime. 

"Madame Giry," she began with as much nonchalance as she could manage. "Did Erik ever come to any of my performances in Faust?"

Antoinette looked up, apologetic. 

"I don't think he did, dear. I wouldn't take it personally, though, I don't think he goes to the Opera House at all, you know."

Antoinette paused. 

"Why do you ask?"

Christine ducked her head, picking at her nails. 

"No reason, really. Just curious."

She felt rather silly. Just because they were in her vocal range didn't mean they were for _her_ \- why, Carlotta had nearly the same range and so did several other singers at the opera. She chided herself for letting her imagination run away and for thinking that the world revolved around herself. Erik wouldn't be writing love songs about her any more than Raoul would be writing love songs about her - _Raoul_. How silly she was to let her mind run away with her like that! Just the other day she was imagining that he hated her with a fiery passion, and now here she was fantasizing that he was secretly in love with her... What utter nonsense she came up with sometimes, she shook her head. 

She spent the rest of the day attempting to read a book in between worrying for Raoul and fighting the urge to go look at those compositions of Erik's again. They might not be written for her, but that didn't stop her from wanting to sing them. She fervently wished she had taken a few moments to try to memorize at least parts of them so that she could sing then if she wished. Why had they been hidden away so? She certainly couldn't bring them up to Erik and ask about them, then he would know she was snooping in his room and he surely wouldn't appreciate that even if he truly didn't hate her. 

It was late in the afternoon and Christine was nearly nodding off on the couch when the door flung open and caused her to jerk awake. 

"That damn Comte," Erik growled, bursting through the door and pacing the room. 

"What's wrong now?" Antoinette murmured, not bothering to look up from her work, too used to his moods. 

"All of his infernal friends and associates are just as stubborn and elusive as he is, I couldn't get a straight answer from any of them," he fumed. "It's almost as if he doesn't want to find the boy."

He sat heavily on the couch, chewing on his nails. Christine was a mere two feet away from him yet he paid her no mind as though she weren't even there. 

"Mark my words, Antoinette - this will require _unorthodox methods_ ," he proclaimed darkly. 

Christine suppressed a shiver at those words, unsure of what they meant. Antoinette had to turn away so he wouldn't see her roll her eyes. 

A knock came at the door, followed by Nadir. 

"Is this a bad time?" he glanced around. 

"You are right on time, Daroga," Erik said as he stood and began to pace once more. "As I was just discussing with Antoinette, this investigation is going nowhere thanks to that ass of a Comte. I'm afraid, dear Daroga, that I must use _unorthodox methods_ in this one, presumably sometime tonight."

Nadir put his face in hands and groaned. 

"Why do you tell me that, Erik? Why do you always tell me that? I don't want to know that," he sighed. 

"Because," Erik sounded offended, as though he were insulted that he had to spell out the simplest of ideas to Nadir. "I merely wish to not be accosted by your lackeys should some imbecile assume the house in question is being burglarized."

Nadir sighed deeply. 

"But I don't like having that knowledge," he insisted. "I don't want to know when you're breaking the law, Erik, it places me in a terribly uncomfortable position."

Christine raised an eyebrow. Goodness - was Erik planning on breaking in to Philippe's house? 

"Daroga, Daroga, my dear old friend," Erik placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "How many years have we known each other now? Practically brothers, aren't we? After all this time, Daroga, you should know by now - I don't care about your comfort."

"Well, hopefully we can make _something_ of this case - as a matter of fact, the police chief from the neighboring district has taken quite an interest it," Nadir offered, trying to forget what Erik had mentioned about his planned breaking and entering. 

Antoinette frowned. 

"Why would he take an interest in this?" she asked. 

Nadir shrugged. 

"They're having a slow time over there, apparently. And the districts are so close together, he seemingly feels there's enough overlap to warrant his looking into it as well."

"Odd," Erik offered, but his mind was already turning with plots about how to get in the Comte's house. 

Nadir stayed and chatted a while longer before taking his leave. A silence settled over the room, Erik lost in thought and Antoinette lost in paperwork. Christine squirmed, unsure of how to bring up what she so desperately wanted to say. 

"You're- you're breaking in to Philippe's house tonight?" she finally managed. 

Erik looked at her as though noticing her for the first time. 

"To look for _clues_ , Christine," he sounded aghast. "I'm not breaking in for fun."

Antoinette snorted. 

"Not _this_ time, at least,"  
Erik protested. "Besides, he brought this on himself."

Christine took a deep breath. 

"I want in," she said firmly.


	13. Chapter 13

Erik stared at her, dumbstruck. 

"You _what_?"

"I want in, on the plan. The breaking in plan," she clarified, managing to say it without stuttering. 

Erik glanced at Antoinette, hoping for backup. She merely looked at him, slightly alarmed but cautiously waiting to hear what else Christine would say on the matter. 

"Why the devil would you want to do that?" he demanded. "It's absolutely out of the question. You're not going."

"No, Erik - hear me out. You've only been to his house a handful of times. I used to spend ages there when I was younger, I know every nook and cranny of that place. We'll save so much time if we go together, I know exactly which stairs creak, which doors are hidden behind veneers, where he keeps his secret items."

Erik listened but gave no sign of agreeing, so she continued, glancing at Madame Giry as she did, attempting to summon some of the woman's courage for her own even if she happened to disagree about letting Christine go with him. 

"Besides, you don't know how tired I am of this - of this waiting and sitting around and doing nothing and being watched like some jewel in a case just waiting for a villain to snatch me away. I'm tired of having things happen to me as though I have no say in anything at all - I'm tired of being passive in this whole situation. I'm tired of- of being a burden, of being like some object you both have to guard," she wrung her hands in her earnestness. "I can do things too, you know. Raoul is so very dear to me, I love him so much, and it kills me to have to sit back and do absolutely nothing while I know he's out there needing help."

Erik gaped at her. He turned to Antoinette, who raised her eyebrows and quickly turned away. Christine caught the look and pled her case to the woman. 

"Don't you agree with me, Madame?"

"Antoinette!" Erik admonished. 

Antoinette threw her hands up in defeat. 

"I am staying out of this one," she sighed. "It is my _personal_ opinion that it's too dangerous for you, Christine. But... I am not the boss of you and your actions."

"Good heavens, Antoinette!" Erik sputtered. "If you aren't the boss of her, who is?"

"She's a grown woman, Erik," she shrugged. "She is her own boss. I can't stop her, but I can _fully disapprove_."

Erik ran a hand through his hair. 

"Have you both gone mad?" he demanded. "Is no one going to stop this?"

"Christine- I really do think you shouldn't go, just to be on the safe side," she offered. 

"Well-" Christine knew she had one last chance to win them over. "I know it might be _unorthodox_ ," she drew out every syllable of the word, causing Erik to narrow his eyes at her. "But consider this - if Philippe happens to catch someone in his home uninvited - who do you think he'll take kinder to - _Erik_ , or his dear little childhood friend, Christine?"

Antoinette leaned back in her chair. 

"She has you there, Erik," she shrugged. 

Erik huffed. The nerve of these women! 

But even he could see the wisdom in Christine's plan, though it pained him to admit it. 

"I should certainly hope he _would_ take kindly to finding you snooping around his house, because if anyone has to go with me on this little excursion, we are almost certainly going to be caught," he said stubbornly. 

She crossed her arms and shook her head. 

"No, you don't know that. Do you have any idea how many times I've snuck through that house in the middle of the night when I was younger? More times than _you've_ snuck through it, I'm sure."

She felt she was being terribly rude, but his insistence that she would mess up the plan combined with how frustrated she felt doing nothing had left her in quite a cross mood. 

He pressed a hand over his eyes, groaning. 

"We will discuss this later," he settled on saying. "We have more important things to speak of at the moment."

He fished a notebook and pencil out of his pocket and pulled a chair up to the couch. 

"How long have you known Philippe de Chagny?"

Christine raised an eyebrow. She would answer his questions, but if he thought he was going to distract her and make her forget about where she wanted to go that night, he was sorely mistaken. 

"As long as I can remember, really. His father was a great fan of my father, and they became friends. I'd say I've always known him, really."

Erik nodded and scribbled something down on the notebook. 

"How well would you say you know Philippe?"

She hesitated. 

"Well, I know Raoul far better. Raoul's only a few years older than me, you know - Philippe is nearly eight years older than me. Raoul and I spent a lot of time together, and being brothers of course Philippe often hung around us as well, but it's hard to have things in common when there's such a big age gap, I'm sure you understand."

Erik swallowed against that tight feeling in his throat. He had no reasonable explanation as to why Christine's opinion that eight years was a _such a big_ age gap disappointed him so - it _was_ a big age gap, it was nearly a decade - and what did Erik care what Christine thought of age gaps, anyway?

"But I know him well enough, I'd say," she paused. "I know him as well as I'd like to know him."

"What can kind of a man would you say he is?"

"That's a very vague question, Monsieur."

Erik glanced up. 

"And that's a very vague answer. Is he a good man, would you consider him _morally upright_ ," Erik rolled his eyes. "A decent man, and all the like?"

Christine considered before answering. 

"Philippe is a... complicated man."

Erik said nothing, and Christine continued. 

"He can be kind frequently, but he can also be cruel at times."

"How so?"

"Well,” she thought for a moment. “One time when we were children, the three of us - Raoul, and him, and me - we were walking in the woods, as we liked to do sometimes. There was a tree that had fallen over the river, and Raoul was quite convinced it could be used as a bridge. Philippe said it would be too dangerous to try to cross - it had been raining quite a lot the past few days, so the river was much deeper than normal. Well, Raoul insisted on trying it, stepping out across it, and he almost made it halfway across before he ended up falling."

Christine shifted uncomfortably, obviously still disturbed by the memory. 

"Poor little Raoul didn't know how to swim at the time, but Philippe refused to pull him out of the water. I ended up having to help him even though I was a weak swimmer myself. Philippe said it was Raoul's fault that he had fallen in and that he shouldn't have to save him from his own problems."

"An ass, even as a child," Erik murmured, writing down a note. 

"But he's not all terrible, you know. He does care about Raoul, in his own way. He threw quite a party for him before he left for the Marine Nationale. He tended to him quite devotedly when he was seriously ill once, and he always tells people how proud he is of him."

"Hmph. I'm not here to hear you sing his praises, Christine. Tell more about what makes uncomfortable around him."

"Hmm... When Raoul was a little older, maybe about eleven, he had the most darling little dog. Raoul loved that dog dearly - he went everywhere with it outside, but his mother was quite insistent that it not come inside. But he took it with us on walks, and he could spend hours at a time playing fetch with it or brushing its soft fur... Except- except one day Raoul forgot to shut the gate. When he got up the next morning, the little dog had run off. That would have been that, but- Philippe had to go and mention that he knew the night before that Raoul had left the gate open, yet Philippe didn't close it on purpose, knowing the dog would get out."

She wrung her hands thinking about it. 

"He let the dog escape to teach Raoul a lesson."

"Did- did the dog ever come back?" Erik couldn't stop the question from spilling out - he used to have a beloved dog as a child, too. 

_used to_

She shook her head. 

"No, we never saw it again."

He sighed. 

"As I said, he can be complicated. He is not without his vices, also," she demurely smoothed down her skirts. "But then again, who among us isn't?"

Erik looked up from his notebook. 

"Speak for yourself, Christine- _I_ am practically a saint," he said gravely. 

Antoinette choked on her tea. 

Christine shook her head, trying to suppress a smile. 

"Now, tell me about his vices. Is one of them, perhaps, drinking too much brandy in the early afternoon hours and passing out from intoxication while he has guest over?"

"Perhaps," she said measuredly. 

He made a circular motion in the air with his pencil, as though to prompt her into continuing. 

"Hmm, he's fond of card games, and of horse races. He's quite fond of anything you can bet on, really - and I don't think it's so terrible to bet on a game every now and then, except - except Philippe is also rather competitive. He can get very worked up sometimes, quite insistent on winning his money back... Sometimes he just doesn't know when to stop," she gave a little shrug. 

Erik nodded and continued writing. 

"And he is fond of drink, as you said. I feel it often brings the worst in him, amplifies his lesser qualities."

There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the scratch of the pencil and the gentle rustle of papers from Antoinette. Christine seemed to have said everything she had planned on saying about that topic. 

"Christine, do you think Philippe is involved in his brother's disappearance?"

Christine's brow furrowed and she didn't reply right away. 

"This shouldn't be a difficult question, you know," Erik pointed out. "He's either the kind of the man who would do something like to his own brother or he isn't."

"Well, I'm not certain, Erik. I would like to be able to say that no, he isn't capable of doing something like to him, except... I can't. Not honestly," she hesitated before continuing. "But that doesn't mean I think he actually is involved, you must understand - I only think that he is capable of it."

He sighed as he flipped through his notes, going over everything he had already asked her. 

"That's all for now," he told her. "But I'm sure I'll have more to ask later on."

He rose from the chair. 

"I assume, Antoinette, that you'll both be going home soon?" he asked hopefully. 

She glanced up from her work. 

"I do suppose so," she replied. 

"Will you bring me back here, Madame, or will Erik come by your house to pick me up for tonight?" Christine chimed in. 

Erik bit his lip. Damn. 

"Christine," he grit out before Antoinette could answer. "How exactly do you think we'll be getting to the Comte's house?"

She considered it for a moment. 

"I'm- I'm not certain... A carriage, perhaps?"

"We're just going to pull a carriage up in front of his house before breaking in? Shall we park it out in the open for all to see, hmm?" 

She flushed at his condescending tone. It was almost enough to make her second guess his apparent kindness the previous day. 

"Well alright, how are we getting there, then?" 

" _I_ was going on horseback, a plan that is now in jeopardy due to _someone's_ insistence in accompanying me. I suppose I'll have to appropriate a horse for you as well - Nadir won't be pleased, but at least it won't be entirely my fault this time." 

Erik was already mentally going through the small stable that belonged to Nadir, trying to think of another dark colored horse besides his own that lived there, when Christine interrupted his thoughts. 

"Ahh, Erik - I don't actually know how to ride a horse," she frowned. 

He turned to stare slack-jawed at Antoinette, who merely returned a weary look as she tried to remind herself that none of this was her problem. She gave a little shrug. 

He turned back to Christine, vindicated. 

"Then you can't go with me, after all. There's simply no way, unless- no, there's no way. You'll have to stay home. End of discussion."

"Are you sure?" Christine pleaded with him. "Are you very sure?"

"Would you make us walk, Christine? All the way there and back? An old man like me?" 

He paused a moment, waiting for her to reply, but she only stared at him in silence and any minuscule hope he harbored of her refuting his being an 'old man' who couldn't handle a long walk was utterly dashed. He rambled on, attempting to ignore the sting he had inflicted on himself. 

"There's only one other option, but you wouldn't like it, so it's not an option at all. I'll go by myself."

"What's the other option?" she lifted her chin in defiance. 

He narrowed his eyes. 

"It's not an option, Christine."

"How do you know that when you won't even tell me what it is?"

"Because," he said evenly. "We would _both_ be riding on the same horse. I'm sure you can see why that's less than ideal." 

A look of deep concern came over her face and she wrung her hands. 

"Oh, oh, I see what you mean, of course," she said, and Erik relaxed just slightly, certain that she had finally given up on going. 

"The horse would mind terribly, wouldn’t it?" she asked after a moment, and his shoulders stiffened once more. "I suppose the poor thing isn't used to carrying two people at once..."

"Cesar... has carried two riders in the past," the words escaped his lips against his will, and he cursed himself for even bringing it up at all. 

"Oh,” she nodded thoughtfully. “So will I meet you here or will you come by Madame's tonight?" she asked once more, as though the matter were settled. 

He released a huff of a breath between his teeth and turned away from her. This woman would be the death of him. 

Antoinette tried her best to suppress any smirk or laugh. Christine had always been a very polite and courteous child, but even then she had a streak of strong will running through her. That streak seemed to have only grown as the years went on, magnified even more by her time in England. Poor Erik probably didn't realize what he was getting into - he was so used to simply being able to boss his clients around, most of them secretly too afraid to say anything to the contrary. It was a situation that often worked in everyone's favor, especially in cases where he was guarding someone. But this - Erik had certainly never had to deal with someone like this before, and Antoinette knew she was going to enjoy watching it play out.


	14. Chapter 14

“I will come by Antoinette’s house later tonight, at the back door,”  
he finally grit out. “When I arrive, you will be ready to go immediately and you be dressed all in black, do you understand?”

Christine nodded seriously. 

“And once we leave Antoinette’s backyard, there will be not a single peep from you until I have dropped you off at Antoinette’s again, are we clear?” he continued. 

“Yes, Erik.”

“If we are suddenly in danger of being caught, you’re on your own,” he said sullenly. “You said yourself that Philippe wouldn’t mind finding you there, so don’t expect me to put myself at risk of being caught on your account.”

She pushed a stray piece of hair out of her face and frowned as she gave another nod. He didn’t have to be so rude about it. 

He hesitated before adding in a softer voice, “When you see me tonight, I’ll be wearing a- well, I will look... different.”

He quickly turned away as though to pretend he had said anything at all in regards to his appearance. 

“I will see you tonight,” he said brusquely. 

Antoinette rolled her eyes at his brooding demeanor, motioning for Christine to come with her as she made her way to the door. 

“See you soon, Erik,” Antoinette called back to him as the door closed. 

Once at the Girys’ house, Christine explained the situation to Meg. 

“Oh, how exciting!” Meg clapped her hands together. “Just think - your first time sneaking into an actual house, and it’s practically approved by law enforcement!”

“Meg!” Christine was scandalized. 

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“Almost, I guess,” she conceded. “I wouldn’t particularly say either one of them _approve_ of my going along, though.”

Meg helped her search through the closet and a trunk of clothes, looking for just the right outfit. 

“So...” Meg began. “Does knowing that you won’t get arrested take the fun out of it?”

Christine presses her lips into a thin line and leveled a glare at her friend. 

“Just a little,” she replied eventually. “But it’s not like any of the other times, anyway - it’s to look for clues to find Raoul.”

She was quiet a moment, thinking of all the times she had _found herself_ in places she was not particularly supposed to be - midnight trips to the zoo with Raoul, early morning practices with Meg in the ballet room far before the sun was up or the doors officially unlocked, the occasional sneaking into the costume rooms to try on costumes she would certainly never get to wear on stage - none of them had been necessarily _right_ to do, but absolutely none of them had harmed anyone so she hadn’t seen an issue with any of them. Yet in all of them, she had never snuck into someone’s home before, a line she had never saw fit to cross, even if it was only Philippe’s house, a place that was practically a second home to her. 

She rolled her hair up into a bun, shoving pin after pin into it to keep it in place, and then adding a few more. The sweater she was wearing wasn’t black, it was only navy blue, and she fretted over whether or not it would be up to Erik’s standards, but it was the only dark colored clothing with long sleeves. The pants, also borrowed from Meg, had to be rolled up at the ankles, which she affixed with safety pins. She squirmed in them - it was such a different feeling than what she used to. 

Meg leaned on the vanity table. 

“Do you think you could steal me something from the Comte’s house?”

“Meg!”

“Nothing _big_! Just _something_ , you know? Just proof you were there,” she gestured with her hand. 

“I’m not stealing from the Comte just so you can have a token from my exploits!” Christine admonished, but the corners of her lips were quirking. 

Meg stuck her tongue out at her. 

“You’re a terrible friend,” but she was grinning too. “I would rob the Comte _blind_ for you, you know.”

Once she had finished dressing and the appointed hour drew near, Madame Giry escorted her outside.  
Christine stood anxiously on the back porch, a single hanging lightbulb illuminating her and Madame, who stood next to her and waited. She peered out into the inky blackness, wondering how soon Erik would arrive. She shifted nervously from foot to foot as she caught glance of what seemed to be two points of light in the darkness, and frowned. Was it just a trick of the light? Some predator animal in the distance? Christine gave a small start when a shadow moved closer to her, but she tempered her reaction quickly, noting the Madame Giry didn’t react at all. 

Erik stood at the very edge of the lamplight, and he certainly looked... _different_. She realized he must have mentioned the change in the hopes of not startling her again - gone was his stark white mask, and in its place was a black one that covered every inch of his face except for where two shining yellow eyes peered out. 

Those bright eyes held her in consideration for- she wasn’t sure how long. She was too busy trying to focus on pressing down the unsettled nerves that were jumping around inside of her, to swallow the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat - to avoid staring directly at that terrible mask. 

Erik had never seen her wear pants before. He supposed it only made sense that she would wear them tonight - the horseback ride and sneaking about would certainly go much smoother in pants than a dress or skirt like she normally wore. But still - he had never seen her in pants before. It was such an odd sight, such an unexpected one. He had never really thought about her legs, he supposed. Obviously she _had_ legs, of course, but he had never had reason to _imagine_ them... They were short, but _she_ was short, so no surprise there. Her hips were wider than they had appeared before, and vaguely his mind registered that she must have always worn styles of skirts to disguise that, probably in some nonsense notion of hoping to appear thinner when there was nothing wrong in how she looked to begin with. 

She cleared her throat and his eyes snapped up to her face, suddenly filled with guilt. He was only surprised to see her like that, that was all - it was like discovering that a favorite book had an extra chapter, or that a much-loved painting had more to it behind the frame - but he realized that to her he was simply a man gawking at her shapely legs, and that for all she knew he might have been having unsavory thoughts about them. For a brief moment he panicked that his gaze had made her uncomfortable, but there was no sign of such a feeling on her face - she only looked vaguely nervous. 

“Are you ready?” his voice sounded slightly muffled coming from behind the molded mouth. 

She gave a small nod, feeling oddly intimidated. In addition to the new mask, he seemed to wearing some sort of scarf that covered his neck and a hat. Every single part of him was covered in black, and it was no wonder that she hadn’t noticed him until he was very close. He had been difficult to read before - but now it was impossible. Without those thin lips visible to give indication of a smirk or a frown, there was nothing left to discern any emotion from him, and she found that prospect unsettling. Still, she tried to push that thought from her mind as she attempted to focus on the task at hand. 

He pulled slightly on the reins he was holding in a gloved hand, and a very large horse stuck its muzzle into the lamplight, it’s face and neck somewhat visible but the rest of that glossy black coat causing it to blend in with the night air. 

“This is Cesar,” he murmured. 

Christine stared dumbly. She’d never seen a horse so big, not up this close at least. But she supposed when it came down to it, she hadn’t seen very many horses this close at all. 

“Hold your hand out to him,” Erik told her when he realized Christine had not only not ridden a horse before, but likely hadn’t been around horses either. “Like this.”

He demonstrated holding out a hand, fingers together and palm up. She copied his gesture, reaching up to the horse, who brought his face down and snuffled at her palm for a moment before trying to nip at her fingers. She just barely stifled a shriek as she jerked her hand back. 

“Cesar,” Erik admonished. 

Cesar shook his head and Christine flinched slightly. Leave it to Erik to have the largest, most terrifying animal imaginable. 

She clenched her fists. She wasn’t going to let this- this _beast_ stand in her way of finding Raoul. She gathered her courage and held out her hand again, this time quickly flipping it over when he leaned in to sniff it, placing it on his forehead and petting gently before he had a chance to nip again. He twitched his ears and let her do so. 

Erik silently cursed his fickle horse for destroying the last chance of leaving Christine behind, but then quickly repented when he remembered that it was his own fault anyway for bringing it up at all. Besides, he could never stay mad at Cesar. 

“Because you don’t know how to ride, you’ll have to sit in the front,” he led Cesar to put his side to Christine. “If you sit behind me and you end up falling off, you’ll end up pulling me with you, too.”

He motioned for her to stand next to Cesar’s side, and then helped Christine up to sit across the animal’s back. She sucked in a breath at being so high up. 

“Just hold on to his mane and try not to fall off,” he sounded slightly annoyed as he hoisted himself up with ease, sitting just behind Christine. “I’ll steer us where we need to go. And don’t squeeze your feet into his sides, either.”

Christine had never ridden a horse before, it was true, but she had imagined that even with two people riding a horse there would have been _some_ room between the two riders. She quickly found she was wrong, and suddenly realized what, exactly, Erik’s concern had been when he insisted that riding double was not an option. 

She gripped her hands in Cesar’s mane, knuckles turning white. How was she not supposed to squeeze her feet into the horse’s sides? Without a saddle she found it extremely difficult to both hold on securely and not squeeze, which she assumed would goad to poor horse into going fast, and the very last thing she wanted to was go fast while being so far off the ground with only a few handfuls of hair to cling to in an attempt to not lose her balance. 

“I expect to be gone around two hours, Antoinette. Watch for us back here around then.”

“Do be careful, Christine,” Antoinette said. “Stay safe.”

“I will,” she squeaked. 

“What about me, Madame?” Erik asked. “Don’t you want me to be safe as well? Are there no well wishes for me?”

Antoinette sighed wearily. 

“Because if I tell you to ‘be safe’, I know you’ll go do something dangerous just out of spite. But if you insist upon it... May your burglary be successful and may you live to complete numerous more offenses of breaking and entering,” she waved a hand. “Now go.”

Erik gripped the reins, his arms on either side of Christine. She was glad of the darkness hiding the color on her face. She briefly considered whether or not she should stay behind after all - not because she felt uncomfortable with him so close, but because perhaps _he_ was uncomfortable with the situation. But before she had a chance to say anything about it, they were suddenly off. Erik set the pace of a quick walk, eager to hurry and arrive at their destination - and end the ride - but not wanting to overtax Cesar. 

Though she could see very little in the dark, everything she could see looked so different from such a higher vantage point. She tried to distract herself with the seemingly new sights, tried to ignore the feeling of him so close to her, the way her back was very nearly touching his chest. If he were almost any other person, she imagined, she’d be able to feel the warmth radiating from him - but just as she’d noticed that night he’d carried her, he seemed to lack any sort body heat and not for the first time she wondered why that was. With a start she realized that she was doing exactly what she trying to avoid doing - thinking of _Erik’s body_ , and hastily tried to think of something - _anything_ \- else. Perhaps that water fountain just over there that she’d never been tall enough to see the top of before- and Christine made the fatal mistake of twisting to look at it. 

Erik watched in horror as she turned to look at something, suddenly tipping with no way to right herself. For the briefest of seconds her shoulders stiffened as she realized she was about to fall - and then his arm swiftly wrapped around her waist and pulled her upright. Her heart was pounding in her ears - she had been certain she was on the verge of falling and being seriously injured or worse - but before her mind could fully comprehend the situation, Erik was holding the reins in one hand and had her held tightly to himself with the other arm, his hand on her hip to keep her steady. He lowered his head till the mouth of the mask was level with her ear. 

“Are you alright?” he whispered uncertainly. 

Had he been wearing his white mask instead of the black one, she would have been able to feel his breath against her neck, and just the thought of it caused a shiver to ripple through her entire body - a shiver he unfortunately most definitely felt due to how he was holding her. Remembering his earlier command to not speak until they were back at the Girys’, she vigorously nodded her head in reply to his question. 

Erik frowned. She said she was fine, but he didn’t understand why she was shivering. Was she cold? He didn’t think it was that cold out, but he had never been the best at judging temperatures accurately. He left his arm around her, both to keep her from losing her balance again and also in the hopes that if she was cold, she would be able to warm a little with his cape around her. 

Christine bit her lip and resigned herself to the rest of the ride with Erik’s arm around her. She was going to have _the dreams_ again after this, she was certain of it. Not an entirely unpleasant concept, but an awkward one all the same. 

After what seemed like ages to the both of them, they finally arrived at the Comte’s home. Erik dismounted first, helping Christine down after. She staggered just a little on her first few steps, unused to being down so low once again, and her balance unsettled after the long ride. She could have sworn she still felt the ghost of Erik’s arm around her, and she brushed her hands over her clothing as though cleaning dust off of them. 

Erik tied Cesar’s reins in a loose knot around the lower branches of a tree in the side yard. The horse stood patiently and Christine wondered if perhaps this was not the first burglary he had been an accessory to. 

With a small hand motion he signaled for her to follow him up to the front door. Once in front of the gaudy ornate entrance, Erik reached into his coat to pull out a small, thin box that contained his lock picking tools. He was entirely surprised, however, when Christine stepped up to the door and calmly pulled a pin out from her hair, stuck it in her mouth to bite it into shape, and then gracefully jammed the pin into the lock. She gave it a few well practiced rattles and the door sprung open. His hands squeezed the little box of tools. He hadn’t even had a chance to open them. 

He followed her inside as though in a daze. Christine had seemed such a good girl - where and why has she learned how to pick locks like that? 

He carefully closed the door behind them and watched as she began to steal upstairs without hesitation. He followed her, quickly catching up. 

Once upstairs she turned left and made her way to a door near the end of the hallway. She pushed the door open and Erik followed her. 

Raoul’s room, he realized after glancing around. 

The walls were covered in maps marked with pins, and Erik stopped to look at these for a moment. Christine began looking here and there for anything that might be of use, taking down his favorite books from the shelves and flipping though the pages, knowing he often kept important papers between the pages. She got down on her knees and looked under the bed, pulling out the small boxes he kept under there, looking in them but finding nothing out of the ordinary. 

Erik pulled open the drawer on his nightstand, finding nothing but a well-worn Bible and a rosary. He raised an eyebrow. 

Christine carefully put the boxes back under the bed once more and went to look in his closet, searching the insides of his shoes where she knew he hid small items. 

Erik examined the contents of the large writing table. A number of letters, which he scanned over but they all seemed to contain only normal correspondences, although from what he could tell the boy was spending quite a lot on the opera house’s repairs. There were a few newspapers, and beneath those were blueprints. Erik pulled them out, intrigued. They were the blueprints for the Opera Populaire, he realized, and then he realized something else about them that made him roll them up and tuck them away in his jacket for further study. 

He peered into the closet, Christine giving him an apologetic look from where she sat on the floor turning his shoes upside down. He left her to her strange task and began to study the items on the shelf. A seashell, a gold heart shaped locket, an iron horseshoe, a faded and bent deck of cards, and a few small photographs in frames. The first was of a group of young men in uniforms, sitting around a table in a small room playing cards - presumably the deck on the shelf was one of them. The second was of a younger Raoul and Philippe standing in a garden, standing next to them were two young girls and an older woman - Erik decided this was likely a family portrait. The third picture was of a teenaged Raoul at the beach with a young Christine, his arms around her as she laughed, a long scarf wrapped around the both of them. Erik reached a hand out and almost touched the little image. Christine looked so young there, so happy. Her hair was being blown by the wind, wavy curls going every which way, the surf gently surging around their ankles. He felt a lump in his throat. Raoul knew her in ways he never could. In an odd fit of jealousy he very nearly took the little picture but instead he turned away from it and scolded himself for being ridiculous. 

True to her word, Christine showed him every secret hiding place she knew of. A hidden room behind a bookcase that would have taken him ages to find, but it was disappointingly absent of any good clues or information. 

Erik did, however, notice the wooden box on the table near the bottle of brandy. He hadn’t forgotten the papers the Comte had looked at so strangely before stowing then away in the box the last time Erik had questioned him. He took the opportunity to open the box and found a letter inside. He picked it up and scanned it over - it was an invitation. 

Christine came up beside him and stood on her tiptoes, trying to see what it was. He lowered it down for her to see. 

An invitation to a secret masquerade party. 

Christine raised an eyebrow at it before glancing up at Erik. That eerie black mask gave away nothing. He swiftly pulled a pencil and notebook from his jacket, scrawling down the details of the invitation before returning it to its box. 

While he was busy writing, Christine had wandered away. In the next room she paused by the flower arrangement on the table, remembering Meg’s words to her earlier. Feeling only a little guilty, she reached out and snapped a bloom off of a stem near the back where it hopefully wouldn’t be noticed and quickly shoved it into her pocket. It was then that she saw a heavy vase up on a pedestal and recalled that one time Philippe had hid a very important letter that was addressed to Raoul inside. She lifted it carefully and tipped it over, peeking inside. Nothing. She sighed in disappointment, and started to place it back on the pedestal. 

She didn’t hear when Erik came into the room, or when he approached her. She didn’t notice him at all as he looked over her shoulder into the vase. She did notice, though, when the edge of his cape brushed up against her as he turned to walk away from her and the empty vase, but she certainly hadn’t been expecting _anything_ to touch her. She panicked, turning suddenly to see what or who was right next to her.

The vase slipped off the pedestal and smashed on the floor, the sound deafening after the endless silence that had preceded it.


	15. Chapter 15

Christine stared up at Erik with wide eyes, the shards and dust of the vase scattered around her feet. 

She’d really gone and done it now, and she knew it. 

But somewhere deep in her mind she felt a vague annoyance - if _he_ hadn’t come up right behind her, his cape wouldn’t have touched her and she wouldn’t have gotten frightened, and she would have been able to put the vase back safely. 

A tense moment stretched out in which everything was silent, and she held on to the foolish hope that perhaps no one had heard. 

That hope was smashed just like the vase when a frightened voice came from the servants’ quarters - 

“Who’s there?!” 

Christine closed her eyes and exhaled sharply. 

It was true that Philippe wouldn’t have minded too much to find her in his home - a little confused and disturbed perhaps, but not angry or upset. That would have been _before_ the priceless vase had gotten smashed, however. Philippe awaking in the middle of the night to find Christine breaking his valuables was not a Philippe that she wanted to meet. 

She opened her eyes to face her fate, expecting Erik to have already made his escape. She vividly recalled how annoyed he was when he told her that she would be on her own should they be about to get caught. To her surprise he was still there, his head tilting just slightly to the side as he looked down at her. 

It has been only a moment, enough time for an inhale and an exhale and then suddenly his hand shot out and grabbed her arm just above the wrist before he quickly turned and ran out of the room, nearly dragging her with him. 

Of all his many skills that had served him well over the years, the ability to memorize the layout of buildings was one that often came in handy. He used it now, not even needing a moment to remember which turns to take as he barreled through rooms and headed for the stairs, pulling Christine with him. It had been easy enough to say all of those things about leaving her behind when they were back in the office, but he found - with some small measure of surprise - that once it had actually happened he was unwilling to leave her. 

She struggled to keep up with him, having to run to keep pace with his long strides. His grip on her arm was tight and insistent, but not cruel or bruising. She could hear the sounds of the servants finding the broken vase and raising a general fuss, and she was thankful that Erik had pulled her with him - if she had paused even a moment longer, she likely would have been caught. 

But they weren’t out of danger of being found just yet, she realized. The hallway they were running down was long, and they likely wouldn’t make the end of it before one of the servants turned the corner to search this way. They might not get captured or stopped, but they would certainly be seen. 

She stopped suddenly, grabbing Erik’s arm with her other hand and pulling him back. So intent on fleeing, he suddenly stopped with such force that she was nearly knocked off her feet, but she managed to hold her footing and pulled him back several steps towards the way they had just come from. 

Erik didn’t understand, she could see it in his eyes, but she pointed to a panel in the carved wood decorating the walls of the hallway. He still didn’t understand, but followed her as she turned towards the wall. 

Erik heard voices in his head screaming at him - they were surely about to be caught, even more certainly now that Christine had stopped him, and he was beginning to grow concerned over that. But in the split second decision between following where she wanted to lead and simply throwing her over his shoulder and continue to run, he chose to trust her. Surely a girl who knew how to pick locks that well also knew better than to run _towards_ her would-be captors... right?

With the press of a button that was hidden in the intricate carving, a portion of the wood panel swung outwards like a door. She quickly hurried inside of it, and Erik stooped as low he could to follow. Once he was in she swiftly closed the door - and not a moment too soon, as they could hear the servants shouting as they continued their search into the hallway. 

Christine closed her eyes and cursed herself. She knew this little room so well, there was nothing in there to be afraid of - if one had a lantern or other light source. And although her rational mind knew it was utter nonsense, a small part of her still felt there would always be _something_ in the dark to fear. Her eyes flew open, but it made no difference. She swallowed hard and tried to imagine the little room just as it was all those years ago when she and Raoul would hide in it from his tutors when he didn’t want to do his lessons. They had placed a very small table in it, and two stools to sit upon, and there was only just enough room for two people to stand beside it. Perhaps if her thoughts were consumed with the happier times spent here, playing cards or drawing pictures, then perhaps she could ignore the sinister air it held now, the way the darkness pressed in on every corner, but her hopes were of no avail. 

“Is there a light in here at all?” came the faint whisper from the shadows. 

“No,” it was barely spoken, just a breath from her lips. 

She wondered for a moment if he was having the same problem as her with darkness, but then there was a faint rustle and then his ragged breaths turned to deeper - if still slightly odd sounding - intakes of air, and she realized that the mask he was wearing likely impeding his breathing while he was running. Her eyes flicked up to where his face would be, but there was nothing at all to see in the thick darkness. 

They could hear the servants approach and then begin to fade away as they passed the hidden cabinet. 

She bit her lip. She wanted so badly to reach out to him, just to touch his arm or his hand to remind herself that she wasn’t alone in the terrifying inky blackness, but she didn’t want to try to touch him while he was presumably holding his mask - what if she startled him and he dropped it? It would make a noise, or possibly even break. She refrained from touching him, instead wringing her hands in an attempt to get relief from the anxiety. 

Erik’s hands shook as he lifted his mask up. It felt wrong, so very wrong, to expose his face so near to Christine, even if she couldn’t see it. But the small holes in the nose of the mask and the thin opening of a mouth on the molded plaster were simply not large enough to get enough air through. He tried to take as deep of breaths as he could, trying to prepare himself for the next mad dash they would need to make after this. When his breathing became more even, he placed the mask back on and made certain that the scarf was tucked in properly so that none of him could be seen. 

The servant voices grew louder once more. Having searched down the hallway and finding nothing, they were returning to tell Philippe - who was presumably hiding in his room - of the apparent lack of intruders despite the broken vase. 

Christine waited until she couldn’t hear anymore footsteps even with her ear pressed against the door, and then she counted to twenty in her mind before reaching to open the door once more. 

“Christine, wait,” Erik’s voice was barely audible. “Are there more rooms we need to search?”

Christine shot a perturbed glare into the shadows. He still wanted to search, after this?

“There’s just a few rooms, but we saw most of them already.”

“Do you think we can get to them,or will they be too on guard now for us to sneak by?”

She shook her head, then realized he couldn’t see her. 

“No. I think we should leave.”

She reached for the door again. 

“Christine-“

She jerked her hand back from the door. 

“What?” she hissed. 

“Remember what I told you about no talking until we return to the Girys’,” he whispered. 

She could hear the frown of disapproval in his voice and she rolled her eyes it. 

Unlatching the door, they both stepped through as quietly as they could. The door closed with barely a click, and they began to swiftly walk down the hallway once more, trying to keep their steps as silent as possible. 

They hadn’t gone very far before Erik began to realize something - taking his mask off in the closet had been a _terrible_ idea. It had been quite dusty in the closet, and he had breathed quite deeply. He had, it seemed, accidentally breathed in dust. 

He only had enough warning time to place a hand up against his mask to keep it from falling off before, much to his chagrin and disgust, he sneezed. 

Christine stopped and turned to gape at him with horror. 

The frightened servants could be heard raising a fuss yet again, and Erik once more grabbed ahold of Christine’s hand and began to run. 

She managed to keep the pace with him as they went down the stairs - in consideration of her, he had to take each individual step at a time instead skipping steps, something he knew that he could manage easily but would cause her to fall. Once at the bottom of the steps however, he dashed to the door with such a speed that Christine was afraid they would crash into it. He managed to keep them from doing so, instead wrenching the door open and pushing Christine through before pulling the door closed behind them. Now free of his grip, Christine kept running on her own to Cesar. Erik quickly caught up and dropped to one knee by Cesar’s side, using his hands to form a step for Christine. He boosted her up and quickly jumped up beside her, pulling the reins fee from the branch and gripping them tightly in one hand as his other arm went around Christine once more. 

Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and she buried one hand in Cesar’s mane and tightly held to Erik’s forearm with the other. It hurt to breathe - she hadn’t run that fast since she didn’t know when. Everything had been going so slow back in the house - and then it had all happened much too fast. It was dizzying, and now that Cesar, sending the urgency in his riders, was going as fast he could with two people, it also felt terribly exciting. Christine wondered if this was what criminals felt like all time, and if so it was no surprise that crime was on the rise - it had been quite a rush. Now that she had a moment to catch her breath and actually think once again, she noted that for all of his manhandling of her in the heat of the moment, he had taken exceptional care not to hurt her. 

Erik listened carefully for any sound of being followed and heard nothing. With every passing moment that they fled the scene of their crime and no one seemed to know it was them, his grin grew wider under the mask. How like his younger days, he mused to himself, yet with absolutely nothing to feel guilty over. In his haste to escape detection, he didn’t even have room for any of the kinds of thoughts that had plagued him on ride there. Whereas before he was consumed with utter absurdity his life had become - _him_ , of all people, holding opera star Christine Daaé in such an awfully intimate way, as they went on their way to commit a _crime_ \- his arm around her middle, holding her so closely against him in a manner that he was certain most other men would _kill_ to experience with her, yet all he could feel was awkward embarrassment at the situation (and of course it was entirely his own fault they were even in such a situation) - now, now there was only room in his mind for calculations of how much distance they’d need to put between themselves and the house before anyone would be able to catch up, and for the strange thrill of danger rushing in his veins. 

When he finally decided they had reached a safe distance he pulled on the reins and Cesar slowed to a more manageable pace, snorting and shaking his head. 

By the time they had turned onto the back road that would lead to Antoinette’s house, Christine had firmly decided that she was _not_ apologizing for the vase, that Erik shared in at _least_ half of the blame, and that was just fine by her. Still, nervousness began to bubble up in her as they approached the backyard. Would Erik blame her for spoiling the investigation? Would he be mad at her for alerting the household that someone was there? 

She was afraid her worries were confirmed by his utter silence as they entered the yard and he slid off of Cesar before reaching up and helping her down. Madame Giry was already on the back porch, waiting for them. Still Erik was silent as they drew closer to the light. Christine pressed her lips into a thin line. She could just tell he was about to launch into a tirade about how he knew better than to bring her, about how she ruined the entire thing just like he said she would-

“How did it go?” Madame Giry asked. 

“Oh, it went just fine, Madame.”

Christine glanced up him, surprised. That dark honeyed voice held no trace of sarcasm, betrayed nothing beyond a trip that apparently ‘went fine’. Was he not going to say anything, then? 

Antoinette narrowed her eyes. He never called her ‘Madame’ unless something was going on or he was hiding something. And his eyes were bright - _much too bright_. If she could see his mouth, there would surely be a terrible smirk there. She quickly looked to Christine, but the young woman merely nodded, supporting his claim. 

“Erik,” Antoinette said firmly. “Are you certain everything went well?”

“Good heavens, woman, do you not trust my judgment?”

Antoinette answered with only a raise of an eyebrow. 

“Besides,” he brushed his hands off on his jacket, avoiding her eye. “I said it went _fine_ , not _well_.”

He cleared his throat and turned before she could ask what difference was. 

“I will see you both tomorrow,” he gave a quick nod to both of them before he grabbed Cesar’s reins and led him back into the darkness. 

Antoinette sighed wearily and rubbed at her temples. Nothing could induce a headache like that man. 

She ushered Christine into the house once more. 

“My dear, did everything go alright?”

Christine took a moment to consider the question. In her opinion it most definitely did not go right - but hadn’t Erik done those kinds of things so many times before, while this was her first trip of the kind? Surely he would know if it went well or not? It didn’t feel exactly like lying - and if it was, well, she was only following Erik’s lead in it all. She was merely trusting Erik’s judgement in this matter - if Erik wasn’t trustworthy, that was hardly her own fault. 

“I think it went fine,” she offered. 

Madame Giry nodded, accepting her answer. 

“Well, you’ve had a long day even so. Off to bed with you, dear.”

Christine bid her goodnight and started up the staircase to her shared room. She couldn’t help but smile when she saw Meg’s eager face at the top. 

Meg grabbed her arm and practically dragged her into their room before quickly slamming the door. 

“What happened? What happened?”

Christine hesitated a moment, then reached into her pocket and pulled out the now slightly crushed flower. She handed it to her friend, who jumped up and down and squealed. 

“Christine! You robbed the Comte for me! Oh, I love you!”

Christine put her hands over her face and groaned. 

“Meg! Keep it down! Your mother will hear you!” she glanced back at the door before lowering her own voice. “Oh, Meg - that wasn’t all I did. I might have also _accidentally_ smashed a very expensive vase, too.”

Meg cackled at this. 

“Was it loud? Did they hear?”

“It was. They did,” she blushed. 

Meg’s eye lit up. 

“How expensive was the vase, anyway?”

“Oh, it was _priceless_.”

“You’re my hero, Christine,” Meg sighed. 

Christine giggled. The Comte had become somewhat of an enemy to all of the ballet girls after a particularly disastrous date with La Sorelli, and Meg had never forgiven him for his boorish manners towards the lead dancer. 

They continued to talk as she changed out of the pants and into her nightgown. She found her tale didn’t even need any embellishment to garner gasps and squeaks and breathless “and then what happened?” as she told her about the quick escape they had found necessary to make. They stayed up so late, in fact, that both of them were having to stifle yawns the next morning as they sat wearily on the couch in Madame’s office. 

Erik, dressed impeccably as always, didn’t look at all like he had been up all night committing a crime, and Christine, who wanted nothing more than to go back to bed, eyed him with jealousy. She’d barely had the energy to pin her hair up without bothering to brush it, yet here he had managed to look _more_ than presentable and had made tea for them all as well. 

How dare he, she thought to herself as she sipped her tea. 

She studied him with curiosity as he stood to the side of the desk, absorbed in reading Antoinette’s notes on the missing child case, not noticing in the least how her eyes lingered on him. 

What _was_ under that mask? Whatever it was, it must be something rather terrible, she decided, for him to go to such lengths to hide it. She thought back on previous night, how he had asked if there was the possibility of any light in the room before he had removed the mask. She stared for a long time at the hints of red, scarred skin that could be seen around his eye and the side of his jaw. He was wearing a high collared shirt with a fancifully tied cravat as he nearly always did, but even so an occasional movement would reveal that his neck was not unblemished. She wondered if the rest of him was mottled with such marks as well, and if perhaps it was the result of an injury or if he was born like that - and then she wondered which would be worse, to have had his life so horrifically and irrevocably altered in an instant, or to have grown up from infancy with something that set him so far apart from all other children. 

She was pulled from her thoughts by the racket going on in the hallway. All four people in the room glanced up towards the door as whoever was throwing such a fit drew closer. 

“-of all the unmitigated _gall_ \- it’s just simply! It boggles the mind that anyone would do such a thing!” Philippe’s voice was now recognizable just seconds before the door flew open. 

“Yes, sir, I agree completely-“ a man who looked nearly sick with nerves stood beside him and nodded, and Christine recognized him as one of his servants. 

Philippe now ignored the man beside him and strode over to the desk Antoinette was sitting behind. His eyes darted between her and Erik, finally coming to rest on the latter as he drew himself up to his full height and loudly and angrily announced with all the offended dignity he could muster - 

“My house has been burgled!”


End file.
